


Unforgettable

by mille_libri



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-05 07:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 68
Words: 173,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6695092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Leyden Amell sacrificed herself to end the Blight, she left broken hearts behind. Now her loves have converged in Skyhold, ripping open those old wounds. As Inquisitor Thule Cadash woos a princess and Varric longs for the real Bianca, Lilias Hawke arrives, carrying more memories for Alistair. They must all put aside their pain and work together if they are to defeat Corypheus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dreams to Remember

Cullen rolled over, seeking a cool place in the sheets. The hole in the ceiling above his bed kept the room cool—too cool, sometimes, when the snows of Skyhold blew, but he preferred that to the alternative. The heat of his body, burning with the need for lyrium, warmed the bed uncomfortably. Still deep in his dream, he moaned, a familiar voice purring softly in his mind.

_“Cullen … Cullen, yes … please …” Her voice was barely more than a breath as she threw her head back against the wall, eyes closing in ecstasy as he filled her. Their brief time together rarely allowed for anything slow; they took their pleasure from one another swiftly but all the more intensely for the brevity of it. He tried to keep his eyes open to watch Leyden’s face as she achieved her pleasure, but he couldn’t; the way she squeezed him within her was rapidly pushing him to the edge._

_Biting back their cries, they shuddered against one another. Cullen let her down, one hand passing over the unruly black hair she could never keep tamed. She rarely bothered, too busy. If there was one mage in the Tower who was determined to pass her Harrowing with flying colors, it was Leyden Amell. She was everywhere, learning whatever she could, working as if there was some goal before her, some plan for her life beyond what the Circle offered._

_“We—I should go,” she whispered breathlessly as Cullen pressed kisses along the side of her face._

_“A few more minutes,” Cullen begged._

_“And be caught?” She pushed at him. “Sometimes I think you want us to be caught.”_

_“Sometimes I think you dally with me for your pleasure alone,” he snapped. He grabbed her wrist as she tried to turn away from him. “Tell me you love me.”_

_“You know I love you, Cullen. But you know the consequences for me if someone finds us.”_

_“No greater than those for me.”_

_“Really?” Leyden’s blue eyes sparked at him. “Will your mind be severed from all emotion, all connection with dreams or love?” When he didn’t respond, she spat, “I didn’t think so.”_

_“I would never let them make you Tranquil!”_

_“You wouldn’t have the choice. Now let me go!” She tore her wrist from his grasp, leaving him standing there as she hurried off in a huff. Why did every encounter have to end in an argument, when he loved her so desperately?_

“Leyden,” he sighed, the word a broken whisper lost to the wind that blew through his room, and he rolled over again, lost in the shifting landscape of the Fade and the dream memories it brought him.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana leaned on the battlements, hardly feeling the chill wind as it blew about her. She was lost in thought, her mind far away in an even chillier place—a flimsy tent high in the Frostbacks, near the entrance to Orzammar. A guttering dark lantern dimly lit the space, but it gave more light than she had needed …

_“You are tense, my darling. Let me massage you.”_

_“It’s no good, Leliana. The darkspawn …” Leyden closed her eyes and shuddered, pressing her face against Leliana’s chest. The Deep Roads had been long and dark and had weighed down on Leyden and on Alistair until both the Wardens had nearly broken from the pressure. “It’s too much. I … I don’t think I can go on.”_

_“Hush, now, of course you can.” Leliana put her arms gently around the slim form of her lover, drawing Leyden closer, stroking the long black braid of the mage’s hair. She rocked her back and forth, humming a comforting song, feeling Leyden begin to weep against her. “There, yes, that’s it. Let go, just for a little while.”_

_Leyden rarely wept, preferring to present an unflappable face to the world; Leliana treasured this moment, the trust implicit in being allowed to witness her lover’s tears._

_She pressed her cheek against Leyden’s hair. “It will pass. Tomorrow will bring a new challenge, a different challenge. And in the meantime, I will keep you safe.” She kept humming, the melody a counterpoint to the sobs of the woman in her arms._

Leliana hummed that song again now, her eyes on the mountains that ringed Skyhold. In the end, she hadn’t kept Leyden safe, had she? Hadn’t kept her at all, in fact. She sighed, drawing her gaze back to the present, to the Inquisition, and turning around to go back inside the rookery.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Alistair looked forward, between the horse’s ears to the road ahead, the members of his retinue preceding him, and couldn’t help contrasting it with another time, when his own feet carried him forward, ill-fitting boots raising blisters, when instead of this careful military silence, afraid lest assassins sneak up on the King while he passed, there had been chatter, the singing of Leliana, Zevran’s endless innuendoes, Morrigan’s cool sarcasm, and Leyden …

_“It will be mine to do. I am the King, Leyden! It’s my responsibility to my people to save them from the Blight!”_

_“It’s your responsibility to your people to be the best king you can be, not to throw your life away.”_

_“So instead you expect me to stand by while you sacrifice yourself? I can’t, Leyden. I can’t! I love you too much to let you do that.” He pulled her against him, breathing in the scent of her glossy black hair, holding her tight so that he could pretend nothing would ever part them again._

_She leaned back enough to look up at him, enough so that he could see the tears pooling in her beautiful blue eyes. “Do you think I love you any less? Do you think I could live knowing I had let you die in my stead?”_

_“If only there was another way, a loophole …”_

_Leyden blinked, looking away, a spasm of pain crossing her features. “There isn’t. And if you won’t promise to let me take the last blow, I’ll leave you behind here, under guard if I have to.”_

_She would do it, without hesitation. It was that strength he loved in her; what would he ever do without her?_

_“Promise, Alistair!”_

“I promise,” he whispered now, to the horse, feeling the pain again as if it was all new.

“Your Majesty?” His captain of the guard, hearing him speak, spurred his horse closer. “Did you need something?”

“No, nothing, Panos. Thank you.”

“Very good, sire.”

“How long to Skyhold?”

“Another two days of easy riding, sire.”

“Thank you.” 

Panos nodded, dropping back again, leaving the King of Ferelden to ride alone with his memories.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _Varric stamped his feet, wishing himself back in front of his cozy fire. He had taken rooms in a seedy tavern, over Bartrand’s loud protests about how unseemly it was, and he looked forward to going back and settling in at a table, maybe making up a story or two. If this contact from the Merchants Guild ever showed._

_“Looking for someone?”_

_He turned and found himself face to face with the brightest eyes he had ever seen. “I, uh …”_

_“Scintillating. Come on.” The owner of those eyes turned around and walked off, apparently trusting him to follow her._

_He did; he couldn’t have done otherwise. The rest of her was put together pretty well, too, he couldn’t help but notice. Maybe this whole escapade would turn out to be worth it._

_She led him down an alleyway. At the end of it, she touched a couple of bricks in the wall and a secret door opened up, smoothly, as if it were on springs._

_“Impressive,” Varric said, studying the mechanism as he went through._

_“You think so? Hardly my best work.”_

_Looking around, he muttered, “I guess not.” The walls were hung with blueprints and schematics, and every table was cluttered with parts and tools and what appeared to be partially built prototypes. “You must have a lot of time on your hands,” Varric observed._

_She shook her head. “There’s never enough time in a day.” As if she had forgotten he was there, he watched her run her hands over a partially built something-or-other, her touch gentle, almost reverent. With a start, she pulled herself away and turned to look at him. “Sorry. I have the payment over here. Tell Bartrand the next shipment needs to be on time.”_

_“Yeah, I’ll do that.” He could just see himself telling his brother that, and then sitting through the rant that would follow. Not a chance._

_The girl smiled. “No, you won’t.”_

_“You’re right. I won’t. But I will look into the shipment for you, see if I can get it rescheduled without bothering Bartrand about it.”_

_“Thanks.” She held out one of those small, capable hands to him. “I’m Bianca Davri.”_

_He shook the offered hand, staring into those bright eyes. “Varric Tethras.”_

_“Pleasure to meet you, Varric Tethras.”_

Varric sighed, running his hand over the wooden body of Bianca the crossbow. He didn’t like to think about how long it had been since he saw the original Bianca, or how long before that it had been that he had the chance to run his hands over her in the supple flesh. It was the price he paid for loving a woman who cared for her work far above anything else in her life, and usually he was … well, if not willing, at least philosophical about the need to pay that price. 

Not that anyone else he knew had exactly been successful in the love arena; at least he was in good company. He had his stories, the people in his head who looked almost but not quite like the ones in the real world, who acted and spoke the way he told them to. And he was saving the world at the Inquisitor’s side, making up for the failures of his past, for not having killed Corypheus thoroughly enough. That would be enough, he told himself. It would have to be.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _“You must be this Champion I’ve been hearing so much about.” His smile was wide and genuine, and he held his hand out like they were two companions meeting on a battlefield, not at all like he was the King of Ferelden and she a jumped-up peasant. “Alistair Theirin.”_

_“Lilias Hawke.” Her answering smile was distracted; she was angry about Meredith, and a little annoyed to find the King of Ferelden and the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall shouting at each other, albeit politely, in the middle of the Viscounts’ Keep. And over the fate of Fereldan refugees, too, the same ones Lilias had been fighting on behalf of all these years. Where had these two been then, when the city had been overrun with refugees starving and freezing and terrified? It was too little too late, in Lilias’s opinion._

_“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said. He looked toward the door, watching Meredith and her retinue exit. “Is she always that … forceful?”_

_“For her, that was lenient.”_

_“I see. So if I’m going to convince any of the refugees to give Ferelden another chance, it’ll have to be quietly?”_

_“I’d say so.”_

_“Well, in that case, maybe I should start at the top.” His eyes were on her. They were brown, warm, with gold flecks._

_Why was she staring at his eyes?_ Get a grip, Lilias. _“I could give you a list of names, I suppose.”_

_“That … would be a start. Yes.” He smiled again._

Hunched miserably on the back of a horse, Lilias tried to banish the memory of that smile. It had brought her nothing but trouble.

Crossing the mountains into Ferelden again felt like coming home. But it wasn’t, either, she reminded herself. Her father, her mother, her brother … all ashes, somewhere between here and the Golden City. The hovel they’d called home in Lothering, no doubt burned long ago to destroy whatever taint lay inside it. 

“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” she asked her companion.

Merrill’s cheerful laugh dispelled some of the gloom that had settled on Lilias. “Because Varric asked us to, and because I’ve never yet known you to be able to refuse Varric.”

“He is perversely charming,” Lilias agreed, smiling, as Merrill had no doubt meant her to, at the mention of her dearest friend’s name.

“It will all come right, Hawke. I feel it.”

“Can you sense the future?”

“Well, no,” Merrill admitted, “but isn’t it nicer to look on the bright side?”

“I suppose.” Lilias squared her shoulders and tried to think of the Fereldan mud clinging to her horse’s hooves as a sign of home.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _“Put the knives down.”_

_Did this woman think he was nuts? Thule shook his head. “They’re daggers.”_

_“Whatever. Put them down.”_

_“And leave myself totally defenseless against whatever that thing was you just fought? Not a chance, lady.”_

_Cassandra paused, folding her arms over her chest in a gesture that had already become familiar to him in the brief time they had spent together, her eyes coolly making their way over him. He had been more thoroughly studied by women, he supposed, but never with his clothes on. He put on a cheeky smile that probably didn’t make him look any more trustworthy, but made him feel a damned sight better._

_“Fine,” she snapped at last. And then, less aggressively, “You’re right. You should have the tools to save yourself; we are bound to run into more demons.” A glint of humor came into her eyes, lighting up her whole face in a way Thule found fascinating. “Besides, if you had any brains at all, you would have killed me already.”_

_Thule chuckled. “I may yet, you never know.”_

He sighed, studying the sketch pad on his lap. He liked to draw—it was entertaining and kept his fingers limber. But he had never had any luck at all capturing on paper what it was that made Cassandra so beautiful. Her bone structure was easy, so defined and strong in her face, and her fine carriage, which proclaimed her noble upbringing, but … the spark that livened her, the determination that drove her, the occasional flashes of humor that made Thule constantly hungry for more of that side of her … those eluded his pencil strokes, no matter how many times he tried. 

Thule put his feet up and stared at the latest drawing, as if he were willing it to come to life and call him a romantic fool for imagining that she felt anything similar to what he did. But … sometimes … her eyes would warm with humor, or soften with something else altogether, and he couldn’t help thinking—

He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and letting himself imagine what it might be like. His head nodded, his chin coming to rest on his chest, the paper slipping from his fingers and fluttering to the floor, and he slept.


	2. Duty's Call

_“Your Majesty?”_

_He turned, watching as the Champion of Kirkwall climbed the stairs toward him, marveling again at how similar she looked to her cousin. If he squinted, he could almost imagine it was Leyden coming toward him. His heart constricted, and he frowned involuntarily._

_Lilias Hawke must have seen the look on his face, because she stopped several steps below him. “You’re still angry,” she said ruefully. “I’m sorry, I must have given you a terrible impression of me. Meredith brings out all my worst qualities.”_

_“Angry?” He tried to think what she could have done in their brief meeting earlier to make him angry. She had been short with the Knight-Commander, but in Alistair’s opinion, the Knight-Commander had richly deserved it. “No, nothing of the kind. I was just thinking—“ Some impulse kept him from finishing the sentence, from telling this undeniably beautiful woman in front of him how much she reminded him of someone he used to love. Close up the resemblance was less strong; Hawke’s eyes were a brighter, bolder blue, her mouth wider, her features farther apart. Leyden had been strong but delicate, and there was little of delicacy in the woman before him. “Just thinking,” he said at last. “Woolgathering. Surely they must have told you I do that.”_

_“I can’t say that anyone has mentioned that particular attribute.”_

_He moved down the stairs until they were standing on the same step. “Really? They don’t call me the absent-minded king?” Alistair sighed dramatically. “All that work nodding off in council meetings, gone completely to waste.”_

_Hawke laughed, and again, he couldn’t help the comparison. Leyden’s humor had been fierce, the laugh shining in her eyes, a triumph, but Hawke’s was warmer, inviting him to share, and he found himself laughing, too. She said, “I think I see your problem, Your Majesty. You’re supposed to woolgather with your eyes open.”_

_“I’ll take it under advisement. But only if you’ll call me Alistair. And …” He hesitated, thinking what a bad idea this was on many levels, but as so often before, his mouth got ahead of his brain. “And have dinner with me.”_

_“I’d like that, Alistair. But only if you promise not to gather any wool.”_

_“I promise. I’ll collect it all beforehand.”_

The King’s retinue approached the gates of Skyhold, looking up at the majestic stone building. Panos, riding next to Alistair, gave a low whistle. “Did you know it was that big, Your Majesty?”

_There was a very crude joke in there somewhere, Alistair thought, wishing for a moment that he was accompanied by Oghren or Zevran … _or Leyden_ … came the thought like a passing breeze through his mind. “No,” he said belatedly, realizing that Panos was staring at him waiting for a response. “No, I didn’t know it was this big.” How was a fortress this large perched on the edge of Ferelden’s borders and no one had known about it? _

__

“How long do you think it’s been here?”

“According to what I’ve been told, ages. Ages upon ages, possibly.” He wondered how the Inquisition had known it was here. The Inquisitor was a dwarf—perhaps the hold had some entry to the Deep Roads? Alistair shuddered to himself. He hoped not. He’d seen enough of the Deep Roads to last him until—well, until the Deep Roads were the last thing he would ever see.

Ten years; eleven, really, since his Joining. And what had he done with them? Ruled the kingdom, yes, but any chance of creating an heir had passed a long while ago, he was sure. He thought of Leyden, of the plans they had made in those cozy tents, whispering softly to one another. She was gone, but she had never really left him, and that was as much the problem as the taint in his blood.

Here in Skyhold, he would see Leliana, whom Leyden had loved; and Cullen, her youthful first love from the Tower. He hadn’t seen Leliana since the death of the Archdemon. Feelings ran too deeply in both of them: the loss of Leyden, the rivalry over who would win her love in the end. 

And Cullen he had last seen in Kirkwall. Kirkwall, where his heart had reawakened only to be torn again. Lilias Hawke had done as thorough a job as the cousin she resembled so strongly. Cullen had seen it, too, to judge from the haunted look in the man’s eyes as he had watched Lilias. But it had been Alistair she had smiled that wonderful smile for; at least, for a time.

The song came to mind again, the elusive haunting melody that had been stuck in his head, repeating itself off and on, for the past few months. He shook his head, impatient with it, like an itch he couldn’t reach to scratch. In the dark of night, he lay awake terrified, wondering if this was it, if this was the Calling, but the dreams were no worse than usual, and physically he felt fine, so he tried to ignore it. He caught himself humming the song now and stopped, pressing his lips firmly together.

The gates of Skyhold groaned open before him, and he and his retinue rode through. The courtyard was muddy, the ground churned up by horses’ hooves and wagon wheels, but there was a dwarven groom at Alistair’s side almost before he had reined his horse to a stop.

“Welcome to Skyhold, sire. We’ll have your mount right as rain in no time, ready for you whenever you need.”

He dismounted, pressing a coin into the dwarf’s hand. “Thank you. Do you know where I might find—“ The words ceased of their own volition as his eyes lifted to a set of stairs that wound around a tower and he saw her there, standing perfectly still. “Never mind, I see her.” He couldn’t make out Leliana’s face under the hood she wore, but there was no doubt in his mind that it was her.

He climbed the stairs, admiring her ability to command the entire courtyard by simply standing still and silent. That had never been his way; he needed to talk, to move. Long meetings in which he had to listen and carefully weigh his options were the bane of his existence.

“Alistair,” she said carefully.

“Leliana.”

They looked at one another, Alistair uncertain how to proceed. This woman had been one of the most important people in the world to him in a time of great danger that had nonetheless been one of the best periods of his life. Now they were little more than strangers, and that made him sad. Leyden would not have wanted this.

Leliana must have thought the same, because her face lit with a sudden humor. “This will never do. After all, I have eaten your terrible cooking!”

“Hey! It wasn’t that bad,” he protested, out of habit, relaxing with her. “How are you?”

“I am well, all things considered. The times are … well, they never do seem to get any better, do they?” She sighed. “But the Inquisition is thriving, and I have found my purpose at last.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“And you? Have you found running a kingdom bearable, at least?”

“I’m still here, and the country hasn’t entirely fallen to ruin. And I don’t forget that I owe thanks to your Inquisitor for all his work in the Hinterlands and on the Storm Coast.” He frowned. “I got your message about the Grey—“

Leliana put her hand on his arm. “Come with me.” She led him up the stairs to a protected walkway just at the top. “This is one of the few places in Skyhold where I feel free to speak about matters that are … delicate,” she said. “And it is unfortunately true—the Grey Wardens are gone, from Ferelden and Orlais both. Only one remains; he is one of the Inquisitor’s companions. Something …” She paused thoughtfully. “Well, I will be interested to know what you think of him.”

Alistair felt a pang of fear. If the other Wardens were gone—maybe the song really was his Calling. Maybe they were all hearing a Calling. Or an Archdemon was about to rise. Wasn’t that just what the world needed, with some ancient darkspawn god running around trying to tear open the sky. “I hadn’t heard from my people in Amaranthine in some time, so when I got your message, I went there myself. They had been gone … I don’t know how long. The place was deserted. And then I went to Soldier’s Peak, and … Avernus was dead, the old bastard. Levi Dryden said it was around the time of the explosion at the Conclave.”

“None of your people told you they were going?” she asked. “That is … concerning.”

“Very.”

“I have not been able to find any trace of them, or the Wardens from Orlais. And Blackwall, the Warden who is assisting us, knows no more than we.”

“Blackwall. That name sounds familiar.” Alistair frowned, trying to place him.

“He says he was in Ferelden during the Blight, recruiting, and fighting darkspawn.”

A black anger swept through Alistair. “He was in Ferelden? Another Warden? And we didn’t know about it?”

“No.” Leliana pressed her lips together. “I felt the same, when I found out. But—as I say, there is something about him … I would not take his story at face value.”

Alistair shook his head, trying to push back the anger. If there had been another Warden, he could have taken the blow, could have saved her … He felt vile wishing to sacrifice someone he didn’t know, even in longing and memory, but there you had it. Apparently he was vile.

Leliana watched him, understanding. At last she said, “There is something else I think you should know.”

“More delightful news? I can hardly wait.”

“Apparently Varric lied to us; hardly surprising, in the grand scheme of things. In retrospect, it was a poor decision to let Cassandra interrogate him. I might have gotten much more out of him.” She sighed. “But that is water under the bridge. As I say … apparently he knew where to find the Champion all along.”

The Champion. Lilias. Alistair’s head spun, his heart thumping crazily. He had tried to put her out of his mind, tried not to hope that when things went wrong in Kirkwall she would come to find him. After all, they had hardly parted on the best of terms. But not to know where she had gone, not to know the truth of what had happened that day, beyond Varric’s heavily embroidered tales … “Where is she?” he asked hoarsely.

“She is coming here.”

Alistair gripped the railing to hold himself steady as the rush of blood to his head made his knees weak. “When?”

“She should be arriving within a few more days.”

He got hold of himself with an effort, looking Leliana in the eye. “How did you know?”

“I met her, too, you know. I knew her in Lothering long ago, and I saw her again in Kirkwall. How was I to know that when faced with a woman who looked so much like Ley— like _her_ , you would lose all control?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, and Alistair turned his face away, remembering that argument in the forest, Leyden standing between them, begging them not to make her choose, remembering that Leliana had been as unable to consider sharing her love as he had.

“I am sorry she chose me, you know,” he said now. “I truly am.”

“Oh?” Leliana asked coldly.

“Yes. Because if she had loved me less, she might have let me die for her.” He cleared his throat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned and went back down the stairs, where his retinue waited for him.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana watched him go, wondering if he thought he really meant it. Oh, he would have faced the Archdemon at the cost of his life … but given the choice, would he really have chosen not to have been loved by Leyden? It was hard for her to believe.

She remembered that moment, facing off against him, Leyden caught between them, hurt and angry and desperate, and a flush of shame stole over her face. If either of them had truly loved Leyden the way she deserved to be, they would have wanted her to be happy whatever way she could. Looking back now, Leliana knew they had lost her in that moment, both of them, set her feet on the path that led to the roof of Fort Drakon.

What Leliana knew that Alistair did not was that there had been a choice. She had been listening when Morrigan made her offer, when Leyden chose not to approach Alistair with the idea of the ritual Morrigan claimed would make it so no Grey Warden needed to die. Leliana had wept silently so that neither of them could hear her, knowing that it would be her love who faced the dragon and burnt the flame of her life away in that sacrifice.

A shiver worked its way through Leliana. That moment had altered the course of her life, as well. She had put aside the last part of her that looked for happiness, determining that when the Blight was past she would use her skills on behalf of the Maker. Her devotion hadn’t been enough for Him; perhaps her blades and her cunning were what He had truly desired all along. She no longer knew for certain; He had not spoken to her again since that night. Had Leyden taken away her connection with the Maker? Had Morrigan? Had she severed it herself? 

Perhaps it no longer mattered. Because she was here, in the Inquisition, doing the Maker’s work on behalf of all His children. And her duty called.

Wearily, she opened the door and re-entered the Rookery.


	3. Welcome to Skyhold

_Bianca rolled over in the bed, one slender leg emerging from beneath the covers. “Bring that chest hair back over here,” she purred._

_Varric chuckled. “I thought you said you couldn’t take any more.”_

_“That was an hour ago. I’m more than ready to go again now.”_

_“Flattering as that invitation is, we’ve pushed our luck far enough. If any of your family finds me here, so much for the good life sitting by the fire and spinning tales.” Varric buckled on his belt and started hunting for his boots. They had been flung across the room when he first arrived two days ago. He found one under a chair, hidden beneath a pile of Bianca’s clothes._

_“What’s life without a little spice of danger?”_

_“Oh, I don’t know … alive?” But he crossed the room to sit down on the bed, running a hand over her bare shoulder._

_Bianca shivered. She captured his hand and drew one finger into her mouth, sucking on it. Varric smiled, stroking her nipple with the wet finger. It puckered at his touch and she moaned. “Come back to bed, Varric. One more time, to remember you by.”_

Varric rubbed a hand over his eyes. Ever since he’d found that runed stone in front of his door this morning, he hadn’t been able to get Bianca out of his mind. He wondered when she was going to show up. The stone was a signal that she was on her way, and it had him all tied up in the usual knots.

Still, she’d show when she did and not a minute before. No sense in worrying about it. Or getting all hot under the collar, not to mention other places. 

And there was plenty going on in Skyhold right now. He wasn’t sure how he felt about seeing Ferelden’s king again after what had happened with Hawke. Not that she had told him; she’d been unusually reticent about whatever had taken her from stars in her eyes to tears. But Varric had eyes of his own, and he knew perfectly well how to use them, and he knew the king had done something to hurt her. She hadn’t been quite the same afterward.

Nonetheless, the king was here, and in another couple of days Hawke would be here, and Varric intended to get to the bottom of things if he could before she showed up. He hadn’t seen her in a long time—after what had happened to the Chantry, and Anders, Hawke had blamed herself, long before the rest of Thedas got around to pointing fingers at her, and she had gone away with Daisy somewhere in the forest. Varric looked forward to seeing them both again.

He got up and left the keep, watching from the stairs as the King of Ferelden came down from his tete-a-tete with the Nightingale.

Inquisitor Thule Cadash was coming up the steps, and he grinned when he saw Varric. “Posing for a statue?”

“Standing in for you, Stones.”

Thule laughed at that one. “I have much more manly chest hair than you do, Varric.”

“Prove it.”

“Only to the ladies.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. “Haven’t seen her.”

“Haven’t seen who?” Thule asked, but a beat too late to be believable. Varric wasn’t sure what his fellow dwarf saw in the Seeker, but the pull between them had been obvious from the first—to the two of them as well as everyone else, he suspected, but as far as Varric could tell, they had no intention of doing anything about it. He supposed it made a better story if they drew it out, but he was tired of all these couples and their never-ending angst. At least he and Bianca had never descended that far, he told himself, wondering yet again when she’d show. Could be tomorrow, could be a month from now, and of course, he’d be watching every time he turned a corner until she did suddenly appear. 

Seeing the King heading their way, he said to Thule, “Don’t look now, but you’re about to have to be impressive.”

“I’m always impressive.” 

“Warden-boy’s a bit of a pushover, anyway.”

Thule groaned. “I forgot he was coming today.”

Varric laughed. “Don’t tell him that.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I thought I’d come farther than that since I took this job.”

“That’s what he’s likely to say.”

The two dwarves made their way down the stairs to meet the King of Ferelden in the courtyard near the training ring. “Your Majesty,” Thule said.

Alistair bowed. “Inquisitor Cadash? Nice to meet you at last. I owe you a thank you for all your hard work in the Hinterlands.”

“Send me a couple of casks of ale and we’ll call it even.”

“Done.” Only then did Alistair turn to Varric, his face betraying the memories between them. “You’ve come up in the world since I last met you—you’re an international publishing sensation.”

There was something open and disarming about this big, genial man before him. Varric had intended to freeze him out over what he’d done to Hawke, but now that seemed so petty. After all, Hawke had recovered and had, he hoped, gone on to find happiness with Daisy. “I don’t know about sensation. As for coming up in the world, well … that’s the elevation.”

“If you insist. I don’t think anyone ever told me how you came to Skyhold. Lil—I remember being assured that you wouldn’t leave Kirkwall unless you were dragged by the heels down the steps from Hightown.”

“It was something like that,” Varric said. He cast a glance at Thule. “The Seekers can be very persuasive when they want information.”

Predictably, Thule leaped to the Seeker’s defense. “She didn’t harm a hair on your head, and you know it. And you were the one who insisted on staying. She’d have cheerfully sent you home to Kirkwall.”

Varric grinned. “She needs me around to soften her up.”

“To irritate her, you mean.”

“Right. She needs _you_ around to soften her up.”

Thule’s face was nearly as red as his hair. “That—that isn’t … exactly …”

Alistair looked from one to the other. “She?”

“Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. You’ll know her when you see her.”

Thule cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, is there—“

“Please, call me Alistair.”

“Alistair, then. And I’m Thule. I was just going to ask if there was anywhere in particular you’d like to see.”

“I wouldn’t mind the full tour.” Alistair looked around him, shaking his head a little. “From the outside this place was impressive. From the inside … I just can’t believe this has been here for so long, right on the borders, and neither Ferelden nor Orlais knew about it.”

“For all we know, Chuckles conjured the whole place out of a dream.”

“Chuckles?” Alistair raised his eyebrows.

“Solas,” Thule explained. “He’s an elf. A bit … unusual.”

“I’m familiar with unusual companions,” Alistair assured him.

“I’m sure you’ll meet him. And all the others.” Thule shook his head. “I’m not even sure how I collected them all. They just seemed to … appear.”

“That’s how it happens,” Varric said. “Hawke …” He paused, waiting for the King to say something, anything, practically daring him, then went on. “Hawke always said not to turn over any rocks or we might find someone else who wanted to follow her around. Not that she minded.”

Thule nodded. “I can’t say I mind, either. My companions have saved my ass more times than I can count.” His attention was caught by someone in the far corner of the training ground, and a wide grin threatened to split his face open. “There’s one now. Come on.”

“Here we go,” Varric muttered to Alistair, who looked somewhat bewildered as they followed Thule.

Cassandra was practicing her forms, taking out whatever frustrations she had on the training dummy in front of her. She stopped when they approached. “Inquisitor. Oh, and you must be King Alistair.”

“The same.” They bowed to each other.

“Cassandra’s a princess,” Thule offered brightly, blandly ignoring the glare she cast in his direction.

“We do not speak of that.”

“Of Nevarra,” he told Alistair, ignoring her.

“I am a Seeker of Truth,” Cassandra corrected him, still glaring. Thule enjoyed being glared at, if the sunny smile on his face was any indicator.

Alistair, his face suddenly serious, said, “I haven’t heard much about the Seekers lately. Were they with the Templars at Therinfal?”

“Nor have I,” Cassandra said, her glare turning into a distressed frown. “And no, they were not at Therinfal, other than the possessed body of the Lord Seeker. I do not know what happened to the others.”

“I’ll have Leliana look into it,” Thule assured her.

“No. No, I will look into it myself.”

“Well, whatever I can do to help …”

Cassandra nodded, but she was distracted, and she moved off, clearly still thinking about her fellow Seekers.

Thule stared after her until Varric cleared his throat pointedly, at which his fellow dwarf jumped, blushed, and looked as if he’d just had his hand get stuck in the cookie jar.

Recalling himself to his Inquisitorial duties, Thule turned to Alistair. “Perhaps I should introduce you to my advisors?”

“I’ve seen Leliana already.” Alistair glanced over his shoulder toward the Rookery, not looking as though it had been a pleasant reunion.

“Then you should meet Josephine.”

“And you know Curly, of course. I’m sure you’ll want to renew that acquaintance,” Varric put in, just a little maliciously.

“Curly?” Alistair asked.

“Cullen. You know Varric and his nicknames.” Thule shook his head. “Some go over better than others. Cullen’s not fond of his.”

“I can imagine he wouldn’t be. Beneath his dignity.”

“What would be beneath your dignity, Your Majesty?” Varric asked.

He had to give the King of Ferelden credit, he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he said calmly, “I suppose that depends on who you ask. Quite a few members of the nobility would tell you nothing is beneath my dignity.”

“We’ll get along well, then,” Thule said, grinning his broad grin. He elbowed Varric in the side as they turned to head back to the keep and Josephine’s office. “Will you leave him alone?” he whispered.

“No.” Not unless Hawke gave him a direct order to do so when she arrived. Varric couldn’t wait to see her—and Daisy, too.

Cullen was in Josephine’s office when they brought Alistair there, and the two men, both big and blond and with more history between them than they would like, nodded at each other briefly but without any noticeable display of warmth.

“Cullen. You look well.”

“Alistair. Same to you.”

“The Inquisition seems to be agreeing with you. You’re doing excellent work.”

Cullen unbent slightly at the praise. “Thank you.” He gestured to Thule and Josephine. “Our Inquisitor and Ambassador have both worked very hard. It is largely due to their efforts—and Leliana’s—that we have succeeded so well.”

“Don’t be so modest,” Thule told him. “Cullen burns the candle at both ends, and sometimes in the middle, too. I don’t think he ever sleeps.”

A look passed between Cullen and Alistair, one of sympathy and understanding on Alistair’s part and of shame and discomfort on Cullen’s.

“Insomnia can be a useful tool,” Alistair said softly.

“Yes. That it can.”

“Your Majesty, how did you find your journey?” Josephine asked. “And your accommodations? Are they to your liking?”

“I confess, I haven’t seen them yet.” Alistair flashed that charming smile of his, and Varric only just held back the rolling of his eyes as Josephine melted under it. “Too many old friends to greet.”

“Well, then, in that case, may I show you to your rooms? I’m sure these gentlemen will excuse us.” Josephine took Alistair’s arm, leading him out of the room.

Thule watched them go. “He seems nice. That’s a relief, after we’ve tramped through half his country at our pleasure.”

“Oh, yes. He seems very nice,” Varric agreed. “Just be glad you’re not a dark-haired woman.” He regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth. He didn’t know the full story of the Hero of Ferelden, but he listened and watched very well, and he had seen the way Cullen looked at Hawke, who by all accounts resembled her cousin Leyden Amell very closely. It was the same way Alistair had looked at Hawke. The two men had looked at each other as if they were measuring up how much of a threat the other one was. 

And now Hawke was coming to Skyhold. Whatever was coming, it wasn’t going to be boring.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
As soon as he had passed the King of Ferelden off to Josephine, Thule went in search of Cassandra, wanting to repeat his offer of help in finding her fellow Seekers.

He found her in the Rookery, talking to Leliana, and he stopped at the top of the stairs to watch them. The Right and Left Hands of the Divine; Cassandra so forthright, Leliana so devious. They had been very good at what they did. They were good at their work now, although Thule thought Cassandra seemed a bit more at loose ends. She had, after all, passed the position of Inquisitor that was meant to have been hers on to him. He was doing a good job at it—probably better than she would have done, if he was honest with himself—but he still felt guilty about it occasionally, even though the sacrifice had been made freely and of her own volition.

There was a deep pain in Cassandra somewhere, a pain that caused her to be hesitant about herself and her capabilities. Thule had been aware of that from the first, although as far as he could tell he was one of the few who could see it. But it was there in every rigid line of her body, every time she caught herself about to smile and frowned instead, every self-deprecating comment she made. Someone, somewhere, had convinced her she was inadequate, and done a damned thorough job of it.

And more than anything, Thule wanted to see what she could be like knowing that someone believed in her. With confidence in her formidable self, she could be magnificent.

He cursed himself for a romantic fool. He’d had his share of women, human and elven as well as dwarven, but there was something special about this one, something that drew him to her and made him want to try his best to make her smile.

She looked at him over Leliana’s shoulder now. “Inquisitor, was there something you needed?”

“No. Just wanted to see if I could help.”

“That is kind of you, but I think we can handle it.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

He sighed and nodded and went back down the stairs. Maybe he’d see if Dorian was available for a game of chess. Having the pants beaten off him had to be preferable to mooning over a woman any idiot could see had no interest in love.


	4. The Darkness and the Light

_When the knock came on the door, Lilias hurried to get to it before Bodahn could. It was entirely beneath the dignity of a grown woman, the Champion of Kirkwall, to be running to the door because a suitor was calling … but there was something about Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden. The warmth of his eyes, his smile, his laugh …_

_The rational part of her mind knew this was a bad idea. He was the monarch of a country that desperately needed him and his leadership; she was the daughter of an apostate, and too entangled in the affairs of Kirkwall to leave. Nothing could come of this._

_But that didn’t stop her from practically flinging the door open._

_He stood there on her doorstep, grinning at her over a … handful of fluff. Lilias frowned at him, tilting her head in question._

_“It’s … wool. Because—woolgathering? But I gathered it all already …” He ducked his head sheepishly. “Maybe it was a reach.”_

_Lilias took the bouquet of wool from his hands. “It’s lovely wool, and gathered so nicely.” She buried her nose in it and breathed in deeply. “Mmm. Sheepy.”_

_Alistair chuckled. “So, is it the worst thing anyone has ever brought you?”_

_“You’ve met my friends, and you can still ask me that?”_

_“I suppose you have a point.” He held out an arm. “Shall we?”_

What are you doing, Lilias? _she asked herself, but she took his arm anyway and let him lead her out into Kirkwall’s streets._

Lilias looked over at her companion. “Thank you for coming with me, Merrill.”

“Of course!” The elf’s green eyes were warm as they rested on Lilias’s face. “You always went everywhere we asked you to go, _lethallan_ , and without asking any questions. Even if none of the others remember that, I do. Whatever you need of me, you have, and for as long as you need it.”

Reaching out, she took the elf’s hand, squeezing it. “Thank you.”

“No thanks required. Besides,” Merrill said more practically, looking up at the imposing edifice of Skyhold, “Tarasyl’an Te’las was a place of the elves once. I’m glad to have the chance to see it for myself.”

Lilias looked at it as well. It looked more Fereldan than elvish to her, but then, who knew what had happened to it over the centuries. Varric’s letter had been rather sketchy about the details of how the Inquisition had come here in the first place.

She thought about him, and the others. The picture Merrill painted was rather more black and white than it needed to be—the others had all offered help, in their various ways, after Anders had blown up the Chantry and it became evident that Lilias was going to end up taking part of the blame for that; deservedly, in her opinion. Aveline had offered her a position with the city guard, and protection—but Lilias couldn’t have stayed in Kirkwall after what had happened. Sebastian had offered a chaste marriage and the position of Princess of Starkhaven, with all that that implied, but Lilias didn’t want to tie him to someone with her reputation, not when he had just retaken his city.

Isabela had offered piracy and adventure and the run of the captain’s cabin—and the captain—and Varric had lied to the Seekers through his teeth, and ended up embroiled in their Inquisition for his pains. Even Fenris had offered to let her come with him, when she told him to leave rather than fight at her side in a cause that went against everything he believed. He would have fought … but she didn’t want his conscience on hers.

Instead, it had been Merrill who had stayed with her, willingly going into hiding and drifting through the forests all the way back to the Fereldan mud they had both missed so much.

And now here they were, responding to Varric’s summons and riding into the mouth of the Inquisition, right into the hands of the very Seekers who had been hunting them. Had the request come from anyone other than Varric, Lilias would never have agreed. But he had asked, and here she was.

“I can’t believe Corypheus isn’t dead,” Lilias muttered.

“What’s that?”

“Corypheus. Varric said he’s the creature who caused the Breach and the explosion at the Conclave.”

“You killed him,” Merrill pointed out.

“I know we did.” Lilias and Varric, Fenris, and her sister Bethany, who was a Grey Warden stationed in Ferelden, had journeyed far into the desert and fought an ancient darkspawn magister imprisoned for centuries by the Wardens. But they had defeated him, and killed him. There had been no life left in that body, Lilias was sure of it.

“So Varric was mistaken?”

“Unlikely.” It was a conversation they had had many times over the course of their journey here, and all it did was bring up Lilias’s concerns about Bethany. They had been in communication for some time, but Bethany had gone silent after asking Lilias to meet her in a remote cave in northern Ferelden. Once she had seen Varric in Skyhold and told her story about Corypheus for the Inquisitor, Lilias would be leaving to find her sister, and hoped that she was okay. Her last message had been cryptic at best.

“She will be all right, _lethallan_ ,” Merrill assured her, for at least the twentieth time.

“Maybe. I hope so.”

They were approaching the gates of Skyhold now, which opened for them. Inside, Lilias told the gate guard that they were looking for Varric, and he directed them into the main keep. Next to her, Merrill gasped softly. Lilias turned to follow the direction of the elf’s gaze—and found herself looking straight at the last person she expected to see in a hidden keep in the mountains. Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden.

He was staring right at her, and she could feel his gaze across every inch of the distance that separated them. And, Maker help her, the traitorous heart that had never been able to entirely let him go gave a leap at the sight of him, so tall and broad of shoulder.

Thanking the gate guard for the directions, Lilias started in the direction of the keep, in the vain hope that she could reach Varric before Alistair reached her, but it wasn’t to be. He met her at the top of the stairs.

“Lilias.”

She didn’t miss the stress he laid on her name, and she stiffened at the memory. “Your Majesty.” When he didn’t move, she asked, “What brings you to Skyhold?”

He shrugged. “It’s a major installation perched right on my border. I’d have been remiss in my duty to the country if I didn’t look into it myself.”

“Well. Good for you. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

“I …” He glanced over her shoulder at Merrill. “Maybe we can talk later.”

“Maybe.” Lilias kept her eyes down. She didn’t want to look at his face or see his smile and be tempted down that path again. There was nothing there for her but pain and a heart already claimed, another woman’s name written across it in letters of fire. “For now …”

He moved, and she hurried past him, cursing the fact that she could still feel the tingle of awareness where her arm had brushed against his.

Inside the keep, she was able to put Alistair out of her mind when she saw Varric’s face light up at the sight of her. He got to his feet, putting down his ever-present quill, and she bent to hug him. Merrill was right behind her, waiting her turn, and the three of them were a laughing mess for a few minutes.

When they finally calmed a bit, Varric showed them to the room they’d been given for the duration of their stay. He closed the door behind him, and Lilias couldn’t wait any longer. “Couldn’t you have given me some warning, Varric?”

“I’m sorry, Hawke. I didn’t know he was coming until I knew it was too late for a message to reach you.”

She looked at him carefully, but couldn’t see any sign that he was being anything less than honest. It was hard to tell with Varric sometimes—she wouldn’t have put it past him to keep Alistair’s presence a secret just to see what would happen. 

But that was unfair. She reminded herself that he had left Alistair almost entirely out of _The Tale of the Champion_ , without her even having to ask.

“I can try to get rid of him,” Varric offered.

“No. No need. I have to leave as soon as I can—I need to find Bethany.”

“Missing Grey Wardens?”

“How do you know?”

“We’ve heard. Nightingale’s all torn up about it. She’s got a soft spot for Grey Wardens since …”

He didn’t need to finish. Lilias knew all too well how her cousin had affected everyone she’d ever touched. She had seen it in Sister Nightingale’s eyes when they had met briefly in Kirkwall, just as she had seen it in Cullen’s eyes, and in Alistair’s, and she cursed the unfortunate family resemblance all over again.

“Speaking of … She wants to see you, and so does Curly. They’ve set up a meeting in the War Room for first thing in the morning so you can tell everyone about Corypheus.”

“Didn’t you?”

Varric shrugged. “They wanted to hear it from the Hawke’s mouth, as it were, and since they have an Inquisitor now, I thought it was safe enough.”

“Is that what they wanted?” Merrill asked in surprise. “For Hawke to be the Inquisitor?”

“It’s what the Seeker says, at any rate.”

Lilias sank onto the bed, sighing. “Varric, can you have something sent up to eat? I’m tired—and I don’t want to … I don’t want to see him again.” She didn’t have a prayer of avoiding him the entire time, but just one evening surely wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

“Sure, Hawke.” He glanced at Merrill. “What about you, Daisy, you want to see some of the place?”

“Yes, please, Varric.”

They left, and Lilias sank back onto the bed, rubbing her temples, wondering why she had let herself be talked into coming here. 

The next morning came all too soon and not soon enough. Lilias was looking forward to getting this meeting done so she could leave, but she dreaded it at the same time. And it didn’t help that Merrill had very much enjoyed her tour of Skyhold. It had been conducted by an apostate elf who both was and wasn’t Dalish, if Lilias understood Merrill rightly, and the two of them seemed to have gotten along famously.

Lilias tried to be happy that her friend was enjoying herself, but she was too keyed up. It got worse as Varric escorted her to the War Room, which was filled with people.

“Everyone, Hawke. Hawke, everyone.”

She nodded at ‘everyone’, looking around the room. Sister Nightingale looked older and harder than Lilias remembered from Kirkwall; Cullen looked exhausted, which was nothing new, but there was pain in his face, too, as he nodded at her, and it looked like more than the familiar pain of him being reminded of her cousin. 

A dark-haired woman with a scar slashed across her cheek nodded, too, slightly less cordially. “So you are Hawke. And Varric knew where you were all along.” She cast the dwarf a glance that boded poorly for him.

“More or less,” Lilias said guardedly.

Another dark-haired woman smiled at her. “Josephine Montilyet, Lady Hawke. Ambassador for the Inquisition. I am pleased to meet you at last.”

“That’s not most people’s reaction.”

“I think you’ll find that no one in the Inquisition is most people.” A red-haired dwarf came toward her, bowing. “Thule Cadash, Inquisitor.”

“Carta?” she asked him, recognizing the tattoo that framed his eyes and ran down across his mouth.

He grinned. “Formerly.”

“Of course.” 

Behind her, the door opened, and in walked the King of Ferelden. “Sorry I’m late.” He was standing right next to her and she could feel the heat from his body. 

Hastily, before she could lean against him and soak up some of that heat, Lilias stepped farther into the room, looking down at the vast table marked with maps of Ferelden and Orlais. “You all called me here,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

“You fought Corypheus,” Sister Nightingale said. “We wanted to know about it.”

“You could have just asked Varric.”

“I thought you needed to be part of this, Hawke,” Varric said. He glanced down at his boots. “We thought we’d killed him, but we were wrong, and …”

“I think Varric thought you’d want to have a hand in killing him again,” Thule finished for him.

“Once seemed like enough for me,” Lilias said.

“Apparently Corypheus felt differently.” The Seeker had her arms folded across her chest.

“So I hear. But I also hear that you dropped half a mountain on him, and that didn’t stop him. I’m not sure I can tell you anything that wouldn’t pale in comparison.”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, twisting his head a little. “Corypheus has already killed the Divine, along with countless others … and he will do it again unless we stop him.”

Lilias looked at him. “I’m sorry. I truly don’t know how he survived. He was dead! I checked his body myself.”

Alistair had somehow moved so that he was standing next to her again, and he put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “No one’s blaming you.”

She was by no means convinced that he was right—the looks on Sister Nightingale and the Seeker’s faces certainly indicated distrust, if not outright blame—and his hand felt entirely too good where it was. Lilias twisted away from him. 

“You’ve already sealed the Breach,” she said, looking down at Thule. “What more?”

There were glances between the Inquisitor, the Ambassador, Cullen, and Sister Nightingale. Thule said, “We have reason to believe that Corypheus is attempting to create an army of demons.”

Varric said softly, “That bastard.”

“If you think I can help …” Lilias thought back to that tower. “The Grey Wardens were holding him in a prison in the Vimmarks.” She frowned. “Somehow he used his connection to the darkspawn to influence them.” Bethany had fought the invisible voice in her head at every step through the tower, and her usually formidable magic had been significantly weakened when they faced Corypheus. The other Warden mage, Janeka, hadn’t even been able to lift her staff against him.

Alistair drew in a breath next to her, and she glanced at him, concerned, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was rubbing his temples as though something hurt his head.

“Could that be why the Wardens have disappeared?” Thule glanced at Sister Nightingale. “Those notes we found on the Storm Coast, they were chasing someone they referred to only as ‘him’. Could have been Corypheus.”

“He messed with their minds and turned them against each other in the prison,” Varric said. “He could have done the same thing on a grander scale now that he’s free.”

Lilias clenched her fist. She wanted to run out of the room to get to Bethany faster.

“What is it?” Alistair asked her in a low voice.

“My sister.”

“Of course. She’s with the Fereldan Wardens.”

“Sweet little Bethany? I spent so much time with her in the Chantry in Lothering,” Sister Nightingale said, her face lighting up. For a moment, she looked like an entirely different person.

“I remember,” Lilias said. She tried not to think of those days, when her father and Carver had still been alive, and their biggest worries had been hiding Father and Bethany from the Templars. Bethany’s friendship with Sister Leliana had been important to her then, as had her faith, and Lilias was glad the Inquisition’s spymaster remembered her sister with as much fondness.

“Do you think we can free the Wardens, if that’s what happened to them?” Thule asked.

“In the prison, Bethany fought against Corypheus’s call, but … I don’t know. When he was dead, the mage Janeka seemed different, somehow, stronger maybe. So if we kill him, maybe that helps … but without killing him, I don’t know.” She made the decision to trust these people. “Bethany was investigating corruption in the Warden ranks. She sent me a message to meet her in Crestwood, but since then, nothing.”

“I know where that is,” Alistair said. 

“If you can get to your sister, we can find out more about what effect Corypheus is having on the Wardens,” Sister Nightingale said.

“We can take my horses. They’re faster than walking.”

Everything in Lilias wanted to accept Alistair’s offer, but could she trust herself with him that long? He seemed determined to act as though there were still something between them, and she wasn’t sure how long she could fight both him and her own heart.

“That does seem best,” Thule agreed. “My team and I can follow you in a couple of days, meet you in Crestwood.”

“No time like the present, then.” Lilias nodded to the group assembled. “Are you ready, Your Majesty?”

“I’ll go have the horses saddled.” He suited the action to the words, leaving the room without any further ado.

Varric and Thule walked Lilias down the hall on their way to go get Merrill. “We’ll see you in a few days, Champion,” the Inquisitor promised.

“Do you want me to come with you, Hawke?”

“No, Varric. Merrill will be with me—I’ll be fine.”

He looked uncomfortable, and Alistair’s name hung in the air between them, unspoken.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen left the War Room, his head pounding. The appearance of Leyden’s cousin hadn’t helped with that in the least. Hawke looked thinner than he remembered, more tired, a bit older. Those should have led to her looking less like the young, vibrant Leyden he remembered, but all he could think of was what Leyden would look like now.

He dwelt on the Tower entirely too much, he knew that. But it had been the scene of all the most emotional moments of his life—the joy he had felt in Leyden’s arms, and the terror of the mage uprising under Uldred. Compared to those, anything he had experienced in Kirkwall paled.

The headache was spearing into the back of his eyeball now, and he blinked, the eye watering just a bit. If he could just make it to his office …

“Commander!”

Whoever was calling him had to repeat the title twice more before Cullen could process through the pain that it was he who was being called.

He turned to see the Inquisition’s arcanist, Dagna, hurrying toward him. He had been instrumental in bringing her to Skyhold; she had helped him immeasurably in the days after the uprising at the Circle: her cheerfulness, her potions, her understanding of magic and the way she looked at it as something to study, something to be understood. Talking with her had altered his own conception of magic and mages, and had enabled him to move on from those dark days and function somewhat normally again. He owed her a deep debt, and was very glad to have her here in Skyhold.

He forced a smile for her that he couldn’t have managed for anyone else, but Dagna knew him well enough to see past it.

“Commander?” She was looked at him with concern.

“I’m sorry. I was—lost in thought.” Cullen took a deep breath, willing the pain to recede to the back of his mind. There was a purpose to this suffering, he reminded himself. He was doing it for a reason. It would get better.

“I caught you at a bad time.”

“No, this is fine. Shall we go up to my office?”

“After you, Commander.”

Dagna was unusually quiet as they walked up the stairs, which Cullen was grateful for. He was grateful for the dwarf’s presence in the first place—having someone else in the office removed the temptation. He should get rid of the box of philters and their paraphernalia, he told himself … but he wasn’t quite strong enough. Not yet.

He took the seat behind his desk and motioned Dagna to the one opposite. “How is the work coming along? Do you find the Undercroft suitable for your purposes?”

“Oh, yes! More than suitable. It’s a little like Orzammar … without the noise.” She smiled. 

“Surely Harritt and his endless hammering …”

Dagna giggled. “Nothing compared to a whole roomful of smiths. Of course, he says I talk more than any roomful of smiths he’s ever been in, but he’s never been to Orzammar. Any smith there could talk the hind leg off a bronto and keep going for days.”

“No doubt.” Cullen was having a hard time focusing on her words; the pain was back and threatening to split his head in two. He gritted his teeth against it; there was no time for this.

“Commander.” Dagna was watching him, her head cocked to the side. He knew that look—it was her studying look, the one that said there was a mystery in front of her she was bound to figure out.

“I’m all right, Dagna, really. Just … all the work.”

“Why don’t you get an assistant?”

He smiled at that, albeit weakly. “It would take longer to tell someone else what I wanted done than to do it myself.” Cullen didn’t add that Dagna had refused an arcanist’s assistant for the same reason, but her answering smile said she heard him anyway.

“Well, then, I’ll leave you to it, but perhaps we could have dinner sometime? Catch up? When the work slows, of course.”

“I would like that. When the work slows.”

“I’ll hold you to it, Commander.” She left the office, and Cullen sat looking at the door she had gone through for a moment. She would, certainly, hold him to it, and some part of him looked forward to a meal with someone who knew him so well, the darkness in him as well as the light. But another part wished she hadn’t come, so that he could contain his suffering without risking anyone seeing it.


	5. To Make Her Laugh

_Thule couldn’t help watching Cassandra face off against the angry Templar. She was magnificent, her stance firm, her eyes flashing. Everything about her said indomitable. He remembered being on the receiving end of that anger. At the time, he had been scared shitless. Now, thinking back on it, he could only imagine what she would be like if moved to the same passion by a different emotion. Just once in his life, he wanted to see that, he thought in the direction of the Maker. Maybe He couldn’t hear, but if any pleas had a chance of making it through, they were those on the behalf of winning a beautiful woman, or so Thule figured. Andraste had called the Maker down from the Golden City, after all._

_The Templar stalked off, leaving Cassandra glaring after him, and Thule went to her side. “Is there an issue with the Templars? Can I help?”_

_“They need to learn that they have uses other than hunting mages. No one can help them with that, but it is not an easy lesson for them to master.” She looked down at him. “This is your doing, after all. You created this alliance.”_

_Stung—after all, she had been right there when he had made the decision—Thule snapped, “What other choice did I have?”_

_“Oh.” Cassandra blinked, her face softening just a touch. “I do sound as though I’m blaming you, don’t I? I don’t disapprove. In fact, you did well. You made a decision when it needed to be made. And here we are. I wish I could say this was my doing.”_

_In truth, Thule wondered why it wasn’t her doing. She had begun this Inquisition, after all, and was more than capable of leading, but she chose not to. But he knew from experience how impossible it was to get an answer to a personal question from her. Instead, he grinned up at her. “Flatterer.”_

_“I’m not!” She sighed in aggravation. “This always happens. Nobody ever takes my meaning …” Her words trailed off as his grin widened._

_He laughed. “You should see your face.”_

_Cassandra glared at him. “I’m thinking less flattering things now.” But there was a hint of a smile at the back of her eyes. Someday, he was going to get a full smile out of her, maybe even a laugh._

Hands in his pockets, Thule made his way down the steps, whistling a cheerful tune. So that was the famous Champion of Kirkwall, was it? He’d known people in the Carta who had had dealings with her—briefly, since most of them ended up dead when they crossed her—and of course had listened to a number of Varric’s stories. But none of them had prepared him for the reality of her. She reminded him a small bit of Cassandra, with the height and the slenderness and the dark hair, but that was where the resemblance stopped. Where Cassandra was strength, Hawke seemed more softness, and there was a fear in her that was understandable given what had happened in Kirkwall and since, but made him a bit nervous about trusting her.

King Alistair didn’t seem to have that problem. He’d watched her like she was a chest of gold, with some diamonds and a shiny set of armor mixed in. The king of Ferelden in love with the most notorious outlaw in Thedas—Thule felt for him. 

His thoughts were disrupted by one of the blacksmiths poking his head out of the armory. “Inquisitor? Excuse me, ser.”

“What is it, Kemble?”

“There’s something you should see. Inside, ser.”

Kemble looked nervous, and nervous blacksmiths were an accident waiting to happen. Thule took his hands out of his pockets and hurried inside, where he could clearly hear the sounds of an argument upstairs, and a familiar Nevarran-accented voice. He sighed. “I’ll take care of it,” he told Kemble, and started up the stairs.

Cassandra had Varric crowded back against the railings. Thule remembered what it had been like to have that concentrated fury directed at him, and he quickened his steps.

“You knew where Hawke was all along!” Cassandra was shouting, her hands on Varric’s collar as she shook him.

Varric pushed her back away from him. “You’re damned right I did. If you had ever told me what you wanted her for—but all you did was shout and bully and act suspicious. Can you blame me if I thought you wanted to kill her, or lock her up? I wasn’t about to let you get your hands on her!”

Cassandra blinked, then she took a swing at him.

Ducking the blow, Varric ran around the table in Thule’s direction. “Have you forgotten that you kidnapped me and dragged me into your interrogation room? Not gently, may I add. What did you expect me to do, serve Hawke up to you on a platter?”

Thule stepped between them. “Enough. This isn’t helping anyone.”

Cassandra turned to him, her jaw dropping. “How can you be taking his side?”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side. This isn’t helping the Inquisition. Find another way to work out your frustrations,” he told her firmly.

“He could have helped the Inquisition! We needed a leader, and he could have given us one. You kept her from us, lying to me all the time,” she said venomously to Varric.

It stung, just a little, that she was still angry about that. Had he not been living up to her expectations?

Varric looked between them, and Thule had the uncomfortable sensation that his fellow dwarf knew exactly what he was thinking. Gesturing in Thule’s direction, Varric said, “Have you forgotten that the Inquisition has a leader?”

Cassandra didn’t even look at Thule, still rolling on the head of steam she had worked up. “Hawke could have been at the Conclave! If _anyone_ could have saved Most Holy …”

Thule turned away from her. This was still about the Divine. The Divine, whom he had failed to save. Did Cassandra really blame him for that?

“We can’t change the past,” he said softly, his voice hoarse.

“So I must accept … what? That the Maker _wanted_ this to happen? That He … That He …” She couldn’t finish. Clearing her throat, she said, “It doesn’t change the fact that Varric lied to me. To us. Even after the Conclave, when we needed Hawke most, he kept her hidden.”

“She’s with us now,” Varric protested. “We’re all on the same side.”

“Are we?” Cassandra asked him. “Are you on the Inquisition’s side? Have you ever been?” She made a noise in the back of her throat indicating what she thought the answer was. “I don’t think you ever will be.”

Thule turned around. “That’s not fair. Varric has fought as hard as any of us in the Inquisition’s cause. He was with us at Haven; he was the one who pulled Flissa out of the burning tavern, for the Maker’s sake! Just because he protected his best friend doesn’t make him our enemy.”

Cassandra shook her head, still glaring. 

Varric put a hand on Thule’s shoulder. “Thank you, but I don’t think anything you say will make her see this any other way.” He started down the stairs, stopping halfway to look up at them over his shoulder. “You know what I think? If Hawke had been at the Temple, she’d be dead, too. Thedas has done enough to her.”

The door closed firmly below them, audible even over the hammering of the blacksmiths. Cassandra sighed, leaning against the railing, her head in her hands. “Perhaps I was too hasty. He did bring Hawke to us. Late, perhaps, but he did it.” 

Thule joined her at the railing. “You can’t take your frustrations out on Varric. He is who he is. And he loves Hawke, just as you loved the Divine.”

“If I’d only explained what was at stake, if I’d made him understand …”

“There’s no way to know if it would have gone any differently.”

“No. Perhaps not. But I never did try to explain why we needed Hawke. I shouted at him, I bullied him, but I never talked to him.” She left the railing and sank into a chair. “I am such a fool.”

Thule turned. “Maybe. It takes strength to recognize your weaknesses and overcome them.” 

“You are very generous.”

He took the seat across from her. Hesitating for a moment, he reached for her hand, closing her long fingers in his. “I still like you, you know.”

Cassandra lifted her head, looking into his eyes. She frowned at him. “I’m being serious.”

“After all this time, you think I’m not?” He held her gaze.

Her fingers shifted within his, but she didn’t pull her hand away or take her eyes off his. “I am sorry if I made it sound as though I regret how things turned out. I don’t.” Softly, she said, “Maybe … maybe if we had found Hawke, the Maker wouldn’t have needed to send you. And … I can’t imagine this Inquisition without you.” 

The moment passed. Cassandra withdrew her hand, and her gaze, and stood up. 

She put her hand on his shoulder briefly. “I don’t know how this will end, but in truth, I would have it no other way.” She left, her footsteps firm going down the stairs.

Thule remained where he was for a long minute before letting his pent-up breath out in a sigh. From anyone else, it wasn’t much, but from Cassandra … Something in her felt what he felt. He was sure of it. And to have her finally admit that she was glad he had come …

Still, he would have to mend this breach between her and Varric somehow. He couldn’t have two of his closest companions—closest friends, really—at each other’s throats.

He gave Varric most of the afternoon to cool down before hunting him down. It wasn’t difficult; he found Varric near his usual table, just standing there staring into the crackling fire. Varric didn’t turn as Thule approached. “I know, I know.”

“As soon as you knew Hawke was coming here, you should have told Cassandra.”

“So she could have killed me then?”

“So she didn’t have to hear about it through the grapevine. I think she’s earned that.”

Varric sighed. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“For what it’s worth, I think she regrets how things went back there. When we get back from Crestwood, you should talk to her.”

Varric shook his head. “I appreciate that you’re trying to keep the peace, but … I think things between me and the Seeker are as good as they’ll get.” He looked down at the table, with all his writing spread across it. “I keep hoping … none of this is real. That maybe it’s all some bullshit from the Fade, and it’ll just … disappear.”

“I don’t think it works that way.”

“I know. And … I’m sorry.”

“It’s not me you need to be addressing that apology to. Just … think about it, will you?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you when you get back.”

They pulled out the next day. Hawke and her elf friend and the king had left with his retinue a couple of days ago. Thule and his people had some errands to take care of along the way before they met with Scout Harding and her people outside Crestwood, which should give Hawke time to find her sister.

Resting at a camp in the Hinterlands, Thule got himself pulled into an intense game of diamondback with Blackwall. The Grey Warden played an old-fashioned variant of the game, which Thule found entertaining. They were about equally matched in skill, so the piles of sticks they were betting with didn’t change much.

Solas had disappeared into his tent shortly after they made camp, as usual. Walking the Fade, no doubt. Thule had to admit to some curiosity about the Fade. He’d never been there himself, and wasn’t really sure he understood the concept of dreams. Pictures in your head while you were sleeping? It sounded like an interesting novelty, but not something he’d like to experience on a regular basis.

At last, Blackwall squared the deck of cards and tucked it away into his jacket. “I think I’ll turn in, Inquisitor.”

“Good-night. We’re off to Crestwood in the morning.” Casually, Thule added, “Scout Harding’s meeting us there with some of her people.”

“Oh, is she?” Blackwall said, equally casually. “She’ll have a proper camp set up, no doubt. Very … um, capable girl.”

“Isn’t she, though?” Thule held his grin back with some difficulty. So he was a meddling fool as well as a romantic one, but he did like to see his people happy whenever possible. In Blackwall’s case, that meant being brought along any time they were likely to cross Harding’s path. Someday maybe he’d even get Blackwall to admit to his inclination toward the dwarven scout.

Harding was cute, Thule had to admit, but she didn’t do anything to his pulse rate. The former Seeker, on the other hand … He went in search of Cassandra, whom he hadn’t seen in some time, and found her sitting on a stump outside her tent, reading by the dim light of a lantern. Whatever it was, she was so engrossed in it, she didn’t look up as he approached. It didn’t look much like one of Cullen’s reports, either.

He craned his neck to look over her shoulder. “Good book?”

She leaped up, startled, her shoulder cracking painfully into his jaw. Thule stumbled back, groaning and holding his face, and Cassandra used his distraction to hide the book behind her back. “I was … um … just reading a report. From Commander Cullen.”

Thule raised his eyebrows, working his jaw to make sure there was no permanent damage. “Right. Has anyone ever told you that you’re an excellent liar?”

“No.”

“There’s a reason for that.” He grinned at her, carefully, and found it didn’t hurt.

Cassandra frowned down at him, that irritated frown that he liked to think said she found him cute despite herself. “It’s of no interest to you, I’m certain.”

He waited.

“It’s a book,” she said at last, exasperated.

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s … Oh, fine!” she snapped. “It’s one of Varric’s tales. _Swords & Shields_. The latest installment.”

Thule couldn’t help it. He gave a great shout of laughter, and then had a hard time getting himself under control. Cassandra didn’t help, glaring at him as though she didn’t see what was so funny. Well, probably she didn’t, he thought. She didn’t seem to think he was cute at the moment, either. He cleared his throat. “You have to admit, it explains why you were so angry—you were mad at yourself for falling for his stories, and mad at him for failing to live up to your expectations.”

After a pause she muttered, unwillingly, “Possibly.”

“I don’t know why you thought you had to hide it from me. There’s nothing wrong with liking to read.”

“It’s frivolous. I—there are more important things I should be doing.”

“At night? In camp? I was playing diamondback. At least you were … um … improving your mind.” That part might have been laying it on a bit thick, but she relaxed a little.

“Just … whatever you do, don’t tell Varric.”

Oh, he was definitely going to be telling Varric. This might be just the thing to reconcile the two of them. He went to her and took the book out from behind her back, turning it over in his hands. “Maybe I should read it.”

She snatched it back. “No!”

“Why not?”

“You—You’re the Inquisitor.”

“I see.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right; turning the pages could give me a nasty paper cut. Can’t have that.” He grinned up at her. “I know! I could have someone read it to me. You wouldn’t know anyone who might want to volunteer, would you?”

For a moment, he thought she might actually be tempted to tease him back. Then she shook her head, groaning with disgust. “You are impossible!” And she stalked off to her tent.

“Impossible to resist, I hope,” Thule whispered to himself before retiring to his own tent, to lie there and imagine her reading to him, her voice soft and low in his ear, a fantasy he could tell he was going to be returning to again and again. That stubborn, magnificent woman was going to be the death of him.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Alistair was torn. Everything in him wanted to get close to Lilias, to stay there and never be parted from her, but they had been down that road before, and it had gone badly for them both. So he kept his distance as much as he could, watching her, wondering what she had been doing all this time, where she had been … what was between her and the elf who clung so closely to her side. Lilias and Merrill didn’t touch each other like lovers, but they spoke to one another with the ease of long intimacy.

He couldn’t help noticing that there were dark circles smudged heavily below Lilias’s beautiful blue eyes, that her wide mouth didn’t form a smile as easily as he remembered. When was the last time she had laughed, truly laughed, he wondered. Could he make her laugh again? Should he?

The song came again, snatches of a melody that made him want to chase after it, to soothe the itch it made in his mind by hearing the whole song, and he felt chilled. Was this what all the Wardens were hearing, this Corypheus calling in their heads? Where had the Amaranthine Wardens gone? Why had they not tried to contact him before they disappeared?

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. Between the woman and the darkspawn, he was going to go out of his mind. Funny how the world turned—he’d been in this same position before. And he really didn’t want to think about how that had ended.


	6. The Thousand Questions

_Dinner wasn’t a low-key event. It couldn’t have been. He as the King of Ferelden and Hawke as the Champion of Kirkwall turned heads wherever they went; they were the subject of gossip and the object of stares and whispers. Alistair remembered a time when it had been just two of them, a man and a woman, unremarked and unregarded. Of course, the woman had gone on to become the Hero of Ferelden, which just showed what people knew. Anyone on this street could go on to change the world, he thought, idly watching a clean-shaven red-haired dwarf with a tattoo marked across his face hurry through the marketplace._

_But the woman at his side made it as easy to forget his past and his present as anyone could. “You never told me how it was that your family came to Kirkwall,” he said to her._

_“I’m not sure you would believe me if I told you.”_

_“Try me. I’ve believed a lot of impossible things.” Alistair tried not to think of any of them right now; all of them would lead him down the dark tunnel of his past to Leyden, and he wanted to stay here with Hawke. Lilias, he reminded himself._

_“In that case … we flew on the back of a dragon.”_

_He chuckled. “That’s one I haven’t heard before.”_

_“Really? Because I do it all the time.” She grinned. “You must not know the right people.”_

_“Apparently I don’t. I’ll have to get right on that.”_

_“You should.”_

_“What was it like?” he asked._

_Hawke closed her eyes as if she were remembering the feeling of flight. “Beautiful, really.” A shadow crossed her face. “Or it would have been if Mother and Bethany and Aveline hadn’t all been weeping for those we left behind.”_

_“You weren’t weeping?”_

_Her eyes met his, clear and blue and strong. “Someone had to keep their wits about them and take care of the others.”_

_Without thinking, he took a step toward her, standing very close, still looking into those beautiful eyes. “And do you always?”_

_“What?”_

_“Keep your wits about you.” He was speaking softly, not wanting to startle the moment and send it scurrying away._

_“Yes. Always.” But the words were whispers, breathless and tremulous, and her mouth was shaping itself to be kissed._

_And then behind him a peddler came calling “Fresh fish! Mackerel, sturgeon, cod! Fresh fish!” and the moment was gone._

Alistair kept his horse on a tight rein, trying his best to keep behind Lilias. What he really wanted was to spur the horse forward and ask her any one of the thousand questions that crowded his mind. How was she? Where had she been? What had really happened that day in Kirkwall? And, perhaps most important and most impossible of all, did she still think about him the way he thought about her?

He wanted to know about her sister, as well. The news about the Wardens was disturbing, to say the least, especially when taken alongside the song in his head. Where could they have gone? Why would they have gone without speaking to him? He was no particular friend to Warden Caron, who had been the commander at Amaranthine, but surely Oghren would have spoken to him before leaving for parts unknown.

In his abstraction, he had let the horse drift forward to catch up with Lilias’s. She looked at him over her shoulder as he drew near, her eyes wide and a little fearful. Alistair was stung by that—he was a bumbling idiot, yes, he wasn’t denying that, but he didn’t think he’d ever done anything to make her afraid of him. She made as if to spur the horse ahead, but he caught the reins.

“Would it really be so bad just to talk to me for a few minutes?” he asked, then smiled. “Please. Riding along with only myself to talk to tends to make for some repetitive conversations.”

Her lips tightened, and for a moment he expected scathing sarcasm, but then she relaxed a bit. “I can’t say my own company is all that satisfying right now, either. I keep thinking of Bethany.”

“You’re afraid she’s in danger?”

“All the other Wardens have disappeared. Of course I’m afraid!” She looked at him, her blue eyes widening. “Oh! I mean—“

“No, it’s all right. The thought has crossed my mind, too.” Alistair shook his head. “I don’t know where they went, or why, and I—half of me wonders why they didn’t take me, and half of me is relieved not to be wherever they are.”

“You know something, don’t you? Something you’re not telling me?”

“It’s a bit of a—“

“Grey Warden secret,” Lilias finished for him, bitterly. “I’ve been on the receiving end of those words far more often than I would have liked.”

“You have to admit, you weren’t exactly forthcoming about all of your activities and entanglements, either,” he pointed out.

“We were talking about Bethany.” Lilias’s voice was low and dangerous.

“So we were. When was the last time you heard from her?”

“Shortly before we left for Skyhold.”

“Left from where?”

Lilias frowned at him. “I’m not telling you that. I was perfectly content to hide from the world until Corypheus rose again, and I intend to go back.”

“Just stick your head in the sand? Must be nice.” Alistair remembered how hard he had argued with Leyden, begging her to understand that all he wanted was to be a Grey Warden, to love her and fight darkspawn and not to have to step into the shoes of a man who had never wanted him and lead a country. All those arguments had fallen on deaf ears; he’d never had a choice. Meanwhile, Hawke had run and hidden away when she could have been leading the Inquisition. He wasn’t sure if he disapproved or if he envied her.

“No one was calling for your head, based on something someone else did.”

“You could have sided with Meredith.”

“You met her. Would you have sided with her? Would you have let her put an entire Circle to death for the actions of a single apostate?”

He wouldn’t have. They both knew that. “I would have helped you,” he said softly. “If you had come to me …”

Lilias looked at him, her eyes wide and filled with pain. “Never. I would never have put you in that position, no matter how much I—no matter what. There is such a thing as the greater good.”

“Yes, so I’ve been told, many times. Usually by people who wanted me to give something up for it. When does it end? When does my service to the greater good let me get something back, to make up for everything I’ve lost?”

He regretted the words the moment they tumbled from his mouth. 

Lilias sat frozen on the back of her horse, her knuckles white on the reins. “There you go again, always looking for a consolation prize. Nothing ever changes.” She spurred the horse on, and Alistair let her go, cursing his own clumsiness.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Crestwood was stormy, the weather suiting Lilias’s mood perfectly. She welcomed the beat of the rain on her shoulders and the crack of thunder in the sky to take her mind off of her worries about Bethany and her unsettled emotions about Alistair.

Even more welcome were the walking corpses that seemed to have overrun the area; both Lilias and Alistair were glad to have a chance to exercise their blades against something so straightforward. His retinue wasn’t so happy; clearly they had not been through the kinds of fights necessary to see a walking corpse as just another foe.

But even as she enjoyed the exhilaration of a fight, and tried not to watch Alistair’s finely trained, powerfully muscled body, clearly still in top condition, Lilias wondered if these corpses were to do with her sister. Had Bethany cracked? Had she become a blood mage, or … an abomination? After all this way, if she had lost her sister …

She followed the map across Crestwood and finally came to the cave where Bethany said she’d be hiding. Near the entrance, not so close as to alarm Bethany, she gave the little whistle their father had taught them when they were children. Her heart leaped when the whistle was returned. Bethany was the only person still alive who would recognize that whistle.

Lilias hurried down the dark passageway, only vaguely aware of Alistair behind her. She didn’t want to admit to herself how much safer his presence made her feel. “Beth? Beth, it’s me!”

“Here. Who’s that with you?” 

“He’s a friend. It’s all right.”

A figure emerged from the shadows, a slender, hooded figure, who threw back her head to reveal a thin, hunted face with only the bright glitter of Bethany’s amber eyes to tell Lilias that this was her sister again at last. She framed Bethany’s face in her hands. “Oh, my darling, what happened to you?”

Bethany started to answer, but caught her breath. In an instant, a dagger had appeared in her hand. “That’s a Warden with you. What is this? I told you to come alone.”

“No! No, it’s all right, really.” Lilias caught her sister’s wrist. “This is Alistair.”

“Alistair … the King of Ferelden Alistair?”

“The same.” Alistair nodded at Bethany. “I’m here as support, and to ask some questions. Whatever’s happened, I don’t know anything about it.” He held up his hands. “I promise, nothing is going to happen to you under my watch.”

“Do you—do you hear it?” Bethany asked him. 

“Yes.”

Lilias looked between the two of them. “Hear what? And don’t say Grey Warden secrets.”

“The song. The Calling,” Alistair said. “It is a Grey Warden secret, but it’s also too much to explain now.”

“Is this it?” Bethany asked him.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I … No. It’s more like the Blight, really. But with no darkspawn …”

“They were scared. Terribly scared. Caron … Caron got a letter from someone in Orlais, and then—we were all supposed to get ready to leave. Immediately. I … it didn’t feel right to me. There was talk of a ritual.”

“What about Corypheus?” Lilias asked. “I thought you wrote that the Wardens didn’t even want to talk about him; that once we’d killed him they were more than happy to let the matter rest.” She shook her head. “I still don’t know how he lived.”

“The Archdemon can survive wounds that seem fatal,” Alistair said. “By possessing the body of the nearest tainted creature. Is it possible this Corypheus has the same ability?”

Bethany’s face paled even further than it already was. “If he can, and if all the Wardens have gone no one knows where …”

“He’s essentially immortal.” Lilias looked at her sister, and then at Alistair.

“You said they talked of a ritual,” Alistair said. “What kind of ritual?”

“It was confused; it didn’t make a lot of sense. Commander Caron said something about preventing future Blights before they started, but … I don’t know how you could do that. How could they do that?” she asked Alistair.

“I don’t think they can.”

“That’s what I said to them, and they—“ Bethany shivered. “They were my friends. My family. My brothers and sisters, and I … I had to flee for my life from them.”

“Do you know where they went?”

“I know the general direction,” Bethany said. “I imagine if we went there, we could feel them.”

“Yes. We probably could.”

“But you won’t, will you?” Lilias asked, concerned. “The two of you, against two nations worth of crazed Wardens?”

Alistair’s strong hand cupped her elbow reassuringly. “The three of us. And the Inquisition.”

“The Inquisition? I thought you were hiding from them.” Bethany searched Lilias’s face questioningly.

“Varric’s with them, and he asked me to come. I met with them. The Inquisitor seems like a good man. He’s coming here, and …”

Bethany stiffened, and Lilias put a hand on her arm. 

“Trust me, sister, please. It’s you and me again, Hawke and Hawke. We’ll get through this together.” She smiled. “There’s an old friend of yours with the Inquisition, too. Remember Sister Leliana?”

“Leliana?” Bethany shook her head. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. I doubt she even remembers me.”

“She remembers. She said so. I think she’d like to see you again. Come back to Skyhold with me, Beth.”

There was a moment when Lilias thought she might refuse, and then she relaxed, and nodded. “All right.”


	7. The Skies over Crestwood

It was raining in Crestwood. Raining hard, so that Blackwall could hardly see. He nearly ran over the Inquisitor when Thule stopped sharply in front of him.

“You know, they say it never rains in Orzammar,” Thule said wistfully. “Where in the name of the Maker’s left armpit is this town anyway?”

“Left,” Blackwall said. He’d been to Crestwood before; it had rained then, too. “Have you ever been there?”

“Where? Orzammar? Never. My mother hadn’t been there, either. My granddad used to tell me stories about it, but I didn’t believe half of them. To hear Dagna tell it, I didn’t give the old man enough credit. Apparently most of what I thought he made up was absolutely true.”

Blackwall grunted. There was something to be said for not knowing where you came from, starting fresh in a new world. “Ever tempted to go see for yourself?”

Thule shook his head, his ready grin flashing. “The surface has everything I need and then some. Why go where they’d look down on me just because I wasn’t born there? Bunch of stuck-in-their-ways old fogies.” He frowned up at Blackwall, then shook his head violently when the rain got in his eyes. “Something to be said for not having to crane your neck to talk to people, though.”  
“I wouldn’t have expected that remark coming from you,” Blackwall said, nodding in the direction of the tall woman in armor walking in front of them. 

Thule chuckled. “Good point.” His eyes were on Cassandra, too, but Blackwall noticed they lingered on a slightly lower portion of her anatomy than his own gaze had followed. “Not that I seem to be making any progress there.”

“Don’t you think so? Hm.”

“’Hm’?” Thule echoed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Generally it means I’m thinking things I don’t want to tell you about.”

The dwarf glared at him, and Blackwall laughed. He had never expected to find himself so comfortable amongst his fellow men again, but something about the Inquisition felt like home, and it trickled down from the top, from this cheerful, determined man at his side.

Blackwall wondered how much of that was a dwarven thing. He’d never spent time amongst dwarves before the Inquisition—those he had met were usually fairly clannish and standoffish. But Thule, Varric, Dagna … Scout Harding … all of them shared a certain practicality of mindset, a certain lightness of heart, a certain indomitable spirit. Blackwall envied them all three.

They were approaching the camp now, set up with Harding’s usual efficiency. She even had canvas erected between the tents to catch the rain and create a somewhat drier area.

The lady herself stepped forward as the Inquisitor’s party arrived, greeting Cassandra and Solas in the lead and then moving past them. She bowed to the Inquisitor, who grunted impatiently as he often did when confronted with the trappings of his position by people he considered colleagues. 

“How many times do I have to ask you to stop doing that, Harding?” Thule grumbled.

“At least once more, Your Worship.” She smiled, knowing that he hated being called that as much as he hated being bowed to. Then she directed the smile upward, and Blackwall could not help the answering smile that tugged the corners of his mouth upward. Even dripping wet, she was a lovely girl.

“Lady Harding.”

“Warden Blackwall. Welcome to Crestwood. Have you been here before?”

“Once or twice.”

“Is the weather always like this?”

He looked up at the sky. “More or less.”

“There are worse things here than the rain,” she said. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing the Inquisition can’t handle,” Thule assured her.

“Careful,” Harding told him. “You might want to save your optimism.”

“That bad?” Blackwall asked.

She walked with them to the edge of the lake and showed them a massive rift in the middle of it. “Unless you can walk on water, you’ll have to find a way out there.”

“I heard there used to be tunnels,” Blackwall offered. “Maybe someone in town will know more about that.”

“I hope so. We haven’t been able to get to the town, though,” Harding said. “When the rift appeared, corpses started walking out of the lake. With our help, the townspeople are holding them off, but they’re tiring … and the corpses aren’t.”

“Let me get settled, and then we’ll see what we can do about that.” Thule hurried off, deeper into the tents, after Cassandra, leaving Harding and Blackwall standing there and looking at each other.  
“I should go see if I can help.”

“Just—Just a moment, Lady Harding.” He fumbled in his pack. “I remember—when we camped in the Hinterlands, you told me about your family, and about your previous life as a sheep-herder.” He found the item he was looking for. “I thought—this might remind you of your former life, and your family.”

She took the small carved sheep, turning it over in her hands. Her capable fingers, deft and firm on a bowstring, gently touched the curl of the wool and the small cloven hooves. “Warden Blackwall.”

For the first time in more years than he could count, he was tempted to tell someone his name, wishing to hear her say his name, his real name, just once. “It’s nothing,” he said. 

“This must have taken you hours.”

It had; he had been meticulous in the details. “No, not really. Just a habit I developed alone in the woods for so many years … recruiting. I thought you might like it.”

“I do. It’s beautiful.” She smiled at him. “Thank you.”

“My very great pleasure, my lady.” 

She hesitated, as if she meant to say something else, then, almost apologetically, she said, “I really should go help the Inquisitor.”

“Of course. It’s a wonder he gets anything done without you.”

Harding grinned, taking it as a witticism, but he had meant it. He watched her go, her small quick steps, the intricate loops of her braids, and wished with all his heart he was who he said he was.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Merrill waited just inside the cave, giving Hawke and Bethany and King Alistair privacy. His retinue was crowded around the entrance of the cave as well, out of the rain, and she huddled in as small a ball as she could to avoid being noticed. Despite the decade she had spent living in Kirkwall, surrounded by humans, and with Hawke and her companions, Merrill remained one of the People in her heart, and was still distrustful of groups of humans, even those firmly under the control of someone who looked at her as an equal.

A rival, even. King Alistair seemed to think there was something more between Merrill and Hawke than mere friendship. Perhaps their ease with one another, the affection they showed each other, led him to that conclusion. Certainly neither of them had gone out of their way to disabuse him of the notion.

But much as she loved Hawke, Merrill didn’t think of her in that way. Those feelings had been dead inside her since she had left her clan. She had never looked on any of her companions in the misery of the alienage in that way, and certainly Fenris had never drawn her eye. Striking he might have been, but the anger practically rolled off him, the hatred. Even laying aside the fact that much of his anger had been directed at her, Merrill could never have trusted her heart to someone who had rejected the light and embraced darkness in that way.

Even as the thought came to her, the skies outside the cave gave a last crack of thunder and the clouds rolled back. Sunlight illuminated the fields, the air clearing and warming.

She got to her feet and left the cave, throwing back her head to breathe in the air. What a relief it was to get out of that stuffy cave and away from those loud humans. Without thinking, she began walking, her feet tracing patterns in the wet grass.

At first she made a pretense of looking for herbs, but she couldn’t lie to herself for long; she had to admit that what she was really searching for was the Inquisitor’s party. No one else could have closed the rift over the lake and sent the clouds away.

She found them just exiting the town of Crestwood, the Inquisitor looking to the Seeker to help disentangle him from the effusive gratitude of the people. It was almost comical to see the dwarf hide behind the armored woman, to see Cassandra draw herself up and fold her arms and make his apologies for him.

And then Merrill’s heart gave the leap that she was coming to crave when behind the Seeker she saw the person she had truly been searching for.

Solas lifted his head and found her eyes across the space between them, and Merrill felt that connection between them reform, her mind and heart drawn to him as they had not been drawn to anyone in a very long time. She smiled, and he gave a grave nod, coming toward her.

“I knew you were here when the rain went away,” she said.

“Yes. The sky is mended, here at least, and for a time.” He studied the sky with a troubled look. “I wish I could stop this.”

“But you are. You’re helping the Inquisitor! What more could you do?”

He shrugged. “There is always more someone can do if they put their minds to it. But come, will you show us the way to the cave where we are to meet your friend?”

“Of course. That’s why I came to find you,” she lied unblushingly.

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

The king’s retinue had spread out from the mouth of the cave and was setting up a proper, if messy, camp. One of them, a former Rivaini mercenary named Panos, came toward them. “We wondered where you had gone off to, Lady Merrill. Thank you for guiding the Inquisition to us.”

Much like King Alistair, Panos looked at her as though he saw no difference between them, and Merrill appreciated that. “My pleasure. Panos, this is Solas.”

Solas nodded gravely, and Panos returned the gesture, and then Merrill and Solas followed the Inquisitor and Cassandra into the cave.

“Where did Blackwall go?” the Inquisitor asked.

“I believe he said he would help Scout Harding clear the bandits out of the keep,” Cassandra replied.

The Inquisitor chuckled. “Generous of him.”

Cassandra smiled. “I thought so.”

“I wonder what King Alistair will think of the Inquisition claiming a keep in the middle of his territory,” Solas said softly.

Flashing a glance at him over her shoulder, Cassandra said, “Perhaps it is best we do not ask him. At least, not until we are back in Skyhold.”

Where what he hadn’t known couldn’t be undone, was the unspoken ending to her sentence.

Hawke had her arms around a thin woman that Merrill recognized with a start as Bethany. How changed she was by her time with the Wardens! King Alistair hovered near both of them looking helpless.

The Inquisitor kept Cassandra back, approaching Bethany himself, speaking softly and gently to her, drawing her out of herself slowly.

Solas and Merrill waited farther down the passage. “I am glad you arrived here safely,” he told her. “I had … wondered what you might find here, and if it would be too much.”

“We did have the king’s retinue,” she reminded him. “And Hawke and I have fought all kinds of things before, and here we are still.”

“Most impressive.” He smiled, teasing her just a little, and Merrill’s heartbeat quickened. Then the smile faded, his eyes on her intensely. “Do you never wish to rejoin your people? You have been away from them for a long time.”

Merrill couldn’t look away. She shook her head slowly. “No. I love them, but … I don’t belong with them. Not any longer. My clan …” Tears filled her eyes, thinking of that horrible, nightmarish day. “My clan is gone, and … they sent me away. I—I am of the People, but I am not one of them. Not any longer.”

This time his smile was gentle, understanding, and Merrill felt a part of her that had been long closed off opening under it. “Then we have something in common, you and I.”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Yes, we do.”


	8. Impossible to Hold

_The girl knelt in front of the bank of candles, swaying a little to the rhythm of the Chant. Leliana smiled; she had done the same thing, the sound of the music, the soft voices becoming part of her mind, the background to her thoughts, smoothing out the tangle of fears and longings and shameful memories._

_She watched for a moment, wondering what a girl so young had to pray so hard about._

_Then the girl got to her feet, turning, and Leliana saw that for all the youth in her slim body, her face looked older, more careworn, although still fresh and lovely._

_“Oh! I’m sorry, were you waiting to pray?”_

_“No. I tend to pray wherever I am, and hope that the Maker can hear me.”_

_“Does he ever answer?”_

_“Not in words, no, but very often in opportunities.”_

_A shadow crossed the girl’s face. “I can’t remember the last time I had an opportunity.”_

_“You had one now,” Leliana pointed out. “You could have walked past without speaking, but instead you spoke, and possibly …” She hesitated. She had meant to keep to herself, but she sensed that the girl before her needed someone to talk to, someone to trust and confide in. She finished, “found a friend?”_

_A smile lifted the corners of the girl’s mouth. “I suppose I had never considered such a moment as an opportunity; I’ve been waiting for something big.”_

_“You never know what size a moment will be until you look back on it.”_

_“That’s a good point. In that case, I am Bethany Hawke.”_

_“Sister Leliana, newly arrived at the Chantry here.”_

_“Nice to meet you.”_

Leliana watched them ride in, the King’s retinue and the Inquisition people together. The King’s men were stiff and formal, constantly aware of their sovereign’s safety. Alistair was loved by most, but hated still by a few who remembered the death of Loghain Mac Tir or resented the exile of Anora or wanted something new and to have done with the Theirin line altogether. The men were wise to watch. And especially here in Skyhold—Leliana could think of a few people here who wouldn’t mind besmearing the Inquisition in the process of taking down the Fereldan monarch.

Of course, it was her job to make certain that didn’t happen, with extreme measures if necessary. And make certain she would.

She didn’t miss Alistair himself hanging back, to the discomfort of his people, trying not to get ahead of Hawke. And Hawke’s attention torn between Alistair and the rider at her side. Leliana squinted to see, her heart speeding up just a little. Yes, that was Bethany, but thinner than she remembered. Also more confident—she rode almost with anger. Well, the Grey Wardens could do that to a person, no question about that.

They would meet again later, in the War Room, when Bethany told them what she knew about the disappearance of the Wardens. For a heartbeat, Leliana regretted the loss of the breathless, fresh young girl she had met in Lothering, Bethany’s sweet innocence, the wonder in her eyes when they had shared their first kiss. Would she remember? It was so long ago, and so much had happened in the meantime.

Drawing back into the Rookery, Leliana knelt before Andraste, praying for strength, for serenity, for the detachment necessary to fulfill her role.

She was later to the meeting than was her usual habit on purpose; she wanted to arrive amidst the group and mask whatever reaction she might have to seeing Bethany again amidst the greetings and introductions all around. Foolish to feel so, she told herself. There had been, what, a few kisses, a few brief moments exchanged between them, the slow movements of two bodies coming to rest against each other … and then, afterward, there had been Leyden. Sweet, wild Leyden, who had made love with such fierceness and fervor. Cousins they might be, but there were no two women more different from one another than Bethany Hawke and Leyden Amell. 

Despite that, despite the brevity of their former acquaintance, Leliana couldn’t help but feel—something. And something was more than she had felt in a very long time. Since before her beloved Divine had died. She had thought that part of her dead, lost somewhere in the darkness inside her, but now a shaft of light was piercing that darkness.

Hawke and Bethany were just ahead of her, Hawke’s arm around her sister’s waist. Leliana slowed her steps to avoid catching up with them. Walking softly was habit, but now she put her feet down with extra care.

As the War Room door closed behind them, she paused, readying herself. Behind her she heard a throat being cleared, and she turned, looking down into Thule Cadash’s blue eyes.

“I’ve never seen you so hesitant before,” he noted. “Anything you want to tell me?”

His usual genial smile was there, but his eyes were shrewd, studying her face. Most of the time, Leliana blessed the Maker for sending them an Inquisitor with such an incisive mind, such a blend of charm and guile and wit, but right now she would have preferred a clod who couldn’t see his nose before his face.

“Just … feeling a bit under the weather,” she said, knowing instantly that he hadn’t believed her.

“Would you like me to make excuses for you?”

She held back the “No!” that rose to her lips, forcing a more casual, “Not at all, but thank you for offering.”

Thule’s grin widened. “I see. In that case, shall we?” He gestured at the door.

“By all means.”

“Ah, there you are,” Cullen said, breathing a sigh of relief as Thule and Leliana entered the room. “Now we can begin.”

“Our apologies for holding up the show.” Thule looked at Bethany, and Leliana blessed him for taking the lead so that she could cover her shock at what she saw now that they were so close to one another. He introduced himself while Leliana covertly studied Bethany’s face. It was lined and drawn, gaunt, the eyes hollow and shadowed. Bethany had been through much since they had last seen one another, but it had marked her far more harshly than Leliana would have imagined. She mourned the lost innocence of the girl she had known, nowhere to be found in the hard eyes of the woman facing her.

“Sister Leliana,” Bethany said, stressing the ‘Sister’ with a curl of her lip that might have been sarcasm and might have been disdain.

“It is just Leliana now. I have not been a sister in some time.”

“So I hear. I, however, am not longer ‘just’ anything. Warden Bethany, at your service.” She bowed.

Leliana inclined her head, refusing to be baited into whatever reaction Bethany was looking for. “I understand you have information about the missing Wardens of Ferelden and Orlais?”

“I do.” Bethany looked around the room. “They’re gone," she said bluntly. "All of them. Consider them dead.”

It was substantively what they had all expected, but distressing nonetheless. Cullen closed his eyes and breathed a prayer to the Maker; Josephine’s eyes welled with tears. Dear Josie. She belonged in a counting house, safe and secure, not here courting the Maker only knew what dangers.

“But there’s a chance,” Hawke insisted. “You said there was a chance, Bethany.”

Having made her point with the harsh statement, Bethany stepped back a bit. “A possibility, yes. There’s some type of ritual that Commander Clarel wanted to attempt, a way to—to fight back against Corypheus. There’s a ruined temple in the Western Approach that was thought to be the best location. I can sketch a map to it, if you like.”

“Aren’t you going?” Cullen asked.

“Are you crazy?” Bethany demanded. “I barely escaped with my life, and you want me to go back amongst them? My own people, my brothers and sisters in the Grey, tried to kill me when I wouldn’t go along with them. I can hardly just waltz in now with a smile on my lips and a song in my heart.”

Hawke shifted to stand protectively closer to her sister, a move Bethany ignored.

“I’ll go,” Alistair said.

He may have missed the swift, apprehensive look Hawke sent him, but Leliana didn’t. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Alistair having transferred his affections from Leyden to Leyden’s cousin, but she also wasn’t sure she was in any position to criticize.

“Your Majesty, that’s appreciated, but I’m sure you have other, more pressing—“

Alistair cut Thule’s words off with an upraised hand. “There is nothing more pressing for a Warden and a King than a crazed, powerful darkspawn lurking at the border. I can keep up with anything else via dispatches; in the meantime, you can consider me a Fereldan representative in the Inquisition. Or a Warden representative.”

“We already have a Warden,” Cullen objected. “Blackwall.”

Leliana saw both Bethany and Alistair hesitate slightly at that, a breath of a pause before Alistair said, “Of course you do. But one extra can’t hurt.” He and Cullen looked at one another, something that might have been a challenge passing between them. Leliana found it amusing that they still clearly considered each other competition, and that neither of them seemed to feel the same about her. Or, possibly, she found it sad. It depended on the moment.

“Well, that settles it, then,” Thule said. “Alistair will accompany me and my companions to the Western Approach, where we will crash a Grey Warden ritual and get ourselves in trouble. Sounds like a Tuesday.” He grinned, and almost everyone smiled back. Bethany, however, did not. “We’ll leave day after tomorrow. That’s a fairly short resting period for you, Alistair, any problems with that?”

Alistair chuckled. “During the Blight, two days off walking was unheard of. I think I can handle it.”

“Good. Anything else?” Thule looked around the room. 

“I will look into this ritual, Inquisitor, and see if I can find anything that might be of help. Grey Wardens hold their secrets rather close to their chests, however.” Cullen looked at Alistair.  
“I don’t know much more than you do, I’m afraid. Bethany might, however.”

Bethany and Cullen glanced at one another and then away. He wore his Templar past on his sleeve, and her magic was there in more than just the staff she carried. 

Leliana spoke before she thought. “I can talk with Warden Bethany, see if I can help her remember any details.”

“Thank you,” Cullen said in gratitude, neatly covering Bethany’s lack of response.

“Excellent. Then I guess we’re done here. Meeting adjourned.” Thule nodded at them all, and everyone began filing out of the room. 

“Let’s get you something to eat, Bethany,” Hawke began solicitously.

“I’m not hungry, sister. And I’m not thirsty, and I’m not tired, and I don’t need to be looked after, all right?” Bethany glared at her sister.

Hawke looked hurt, and Bethany sighed.

“I’m sorry. It’s been a long few months, and I’m used to being on my own. Maybe … a little space?”

“Of course. I’ll be here if you need anything.” Hawke left, not without several backward glances of concern.

Leliana and Bethany walked out together. To break the ice, and because she was genuinely curious, Leliana asked, “You and Alistair had an … odd reaction to the mention of our resident Warden. Would you mind explaining?”

Bethany snorted. “He’s no Warden.”

“Really.” Leliana had suspected something was off about Blackwall, but she hadn’t thought the deception went that far. “You’re certain?”

“I can tell.” Bethany softened a bit. “I don’t know that I would think he’s a danger, but … he’s definitely not a Warden.”

“I will look into it, perhaps I can discover what he’s hiding.” They walked a few steps, and then Leliana said, “This is a long way from Lothering.”

“Not that far—as the crow flies.” Bethany smiled briefly.

“No, I suppose not. But many crows have flown in the years since last we met.”

“Too many.”

“I would hate to think so.”

“Don’t.” Bethany’s voice was low but firm. “Don’t try to open that door. You aren’t ready for what lies behind it.”

Leliana met Bethany’s amber gaze with firmness of her own, darkness of her own. “Do you think you are the only one who has suffered and lost and grown weary and embittered in the passage of these years? I may understand the depths of you better now than I would have then—and you certainly have a better chance of understanding mine. Do not presume that your own pain is the only one in the world.”

She could see Bethany struggling to accept the truth of her words, and quickly she turned away. “We can meet later to discuss the ritual. I have work I must be getting back to.”  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Varric looked up from the page. He’d been jotting down notes for a new story, but his heart wasn’t really in it. Too much of his mind was taken up with wondering whether Bianca would be waiting around the next corner, or if she would be the next one through the door of the main hall.

Wasn’t this just like her, though? Having that rock dropped in front of his door and then not showing up? She was sitting somewhere laughing at the idea of him bouncing out of his chair every time he saw a dwarven figure. He could have sworn Dagna kept creeping around and showing up in unexpected places on purpose.

She was sitting with Curly now, chattering at him as he ate his soup. Curly’s face was drawn with pain; he wasn’t hearing a word, that much was clear. But he didn’t seem to mind her being there.  
Sunshine came into the room, looking around her at the long tables filled with people. A smile came to Varric’s face at the sight of her, rising of its own volition. She caught his eye and something like relief came over her as she approached his table.

“Varric. One of the few people I’m glad to see here. Honestly, is all of Kirkwall here? And Ferelden, too.”

“Too many for you?”

“A few. You mind if I sit?”

“Please. My table is your table.”

“This seemed to spring up out of nowhere,” she said, crossing her arms on the table. Her eyelids drooped just a bit, the weariness in her evident in every line of her body.

“You mean Skyhold, the Inquisition, Corypheus …”

“All of it. One day you’re a girl in Lothering, running in the fields, praying in the Chantry …” Her voice trailed off, her eyes on the dancing flames in the fire behind Varric. “Falling in love. Then you’re far from everything you knew in a dirty city that hates you, scrabbling for every copper you can get … then in the Deep Roads, dying of taint.”

“Lots of changes,” Varric said sympathetically. He wanted to bring that dreamy look back into her eyes, rather than the bleak, haunted one that had replaced it. “Tell me about the love.”

At that, she chuckled. “You would grab onto that.”

“You ought to.”

“Look who’s talking.” She leaned across the table. “Tell me about Bianca.”

“Sunshine, you know that’s the one story I can never tell.”

“But I don’t know why.”

Varric grinned at her. “That’s the beauty of it.” 

“Fine, then—at least tell me this. Is she a real person? Is there a real Bianca out there somewhere who once touched your heart?”

Varric thought of Bianca, fiercely beautiful and gloriously demanding and maddeningly impossible to hold.

It must have shown in his face, because Bethany crowed with delight, sounding more like the Sunshine he had once known than she'd had since she arrived. “There is!”

He nodded, slowly.

“Do you think you’ll see her again?”

“You said one question.”

“Actually, I didn’t specify.” She smiled.

“In that case … she always turns up, when I least expect her.”

“So I might be able to meet her someday?”

Varric shrugged.

Bethany stood up, looking more energized than when she had sat down. “That’s something to live for, at least.”


	9. To Dull the Pain

_Cullen bent his head, closing his eyes, praying to see only the sweet imagined face of Andraste, or nothing—anything but the lascivious images of Leyden he had seen when the demons tortured him, the dreams of her in his arms again, the nightmare of himself ripping her guts out as she became an abomination. They had known just where he was most vulnerable, just where the pain would cut the deepest, and they had struck him there over and over and over._

_If this was what mages lived with, how did they endure? They didn’t—he had seen that for himself, seen mage after mage buckle under the onslaught and give themselves over to the demons. And then … Leyden herself._

_He had thought her a demon herself, at first, or another figment of the demons’ fevered imagination, but she had been all too real, and all too distant. Whatever had been between them might as well never have existed._

_Only later, watching her accept the caresses of the red-haired bard, watching her eyes follow longingly the broad shoulders of the warrior, had he come to understand her faithlessness. He had loved her with everything in him, but she …_

_Aware suddenly of a presence beside him, he lifted his head, seeing a small woman kneeling next to him. Blinking in confusion, he gradually came back to the present, to the broken tower as it was today, and remembered the dwarven girl who had come to study._

_“Are—are you an Andrastean?” he asked her, genuinely curious. Did the dwarves even know about the Maker’s Bride?_

_“No,” Dagna said cheerfully. “But I want to know all about her. I want to know all about everything here.” She looked at him, her eyes bright and curious. “Can you teach me?”_

Cullen leaned over the desk, his knuckles braced against the surface, staring down at the box that lay there in front of him. He wanted it; oh, how he wanted it. The relief from the pounding pain in his head, the weakness in his muscles, the confusion that buzzed in his brain at all the wrong times. The power that he could practically feel surging in his veins, making him the equal of any mage that might come at him. 

_… They came at him, whispering, their voices soothing in his ears, promising, giving him visions of her …_

He gritted his teeth. The demons wouldn’t go away if he took the lyrium, he told himself again. He knew that … but it didn’t stop the traitorous murmurs of his own mind, the hope that maybe if he took it, there would be silence, and the memories would be lost in the song of the lyrium.

Didn’t he owe the Inquisition the fullness of his strength? Shouldn’t he be at his best, not fighting a war on two fronts?

Cullen straightened, his resolve firming. Much as he dreaded the look in Thule’s frank blue eyes when he told him what was going on, he owed the Inquisitor as much honesty as he could bear. Striding to the door, he called the nearest soldier to him and asked the man to fetch the Inquisitor as soon as he had a moment to spare.

He returned to his chair, leaning back in it with one ankle resting on the other knee, his fingers tented as he stared at the vial. If he listened hard enough, maybe he could hear the song …

“Cullen, you asked for me? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Looking up, he shook his head. “No, you are interrupting nothing. I was merely … Do you know what this is?”

Thule smiled. “Of course. I was Carta, remember? I’ve probably handled more vials of that stuff than you have.”

“Ah. Yes, no doubt you have.” Cullen pushed his chair back and stood, feeling more comfortable on his feet, more capable of taking whatever might come. “As leader of the Inquisition, I thought … I thought you had a right to know.”

“That you take lyrium? I knew that, Cullen.”

“No.” Cullen took a deep breath, then let the truth out. “That I no longer take it.”

Thule’s eyebrows rose. “Really? Well, that’s a surprise.” He studied Cullen carefully. “You want to tell me about it?”

“I … you know about lyrium, how it eventually comes to control us, what it does as we continue to take it?”

“Yes. I also know that cutting off the supply can lead to madness, and often death. Are you sure this is the right course for you?” There was no censure in the dwarf’s voice, but he was as utterly serious and humorless as Cullen had ever seen him.

“I … yes. I … think so?”

“Not easy, is it?” Thule frowned. “How long has it been?”

“Since before I joined the Inquisition. Months.”

“And this is only just coming up now?”

Cullen looked up, his eyes meeting Thule’s. “It isn’t something I go around shouting from the rooftops.”

“No. And I haven’t always been the Inquisitor. Fine. Then … how are you handling it? I have to say, lyrium withdrawal explains some things.”

“No doubt it does.” Cullen sighed heavily. “I just … after what happened in Kirkwall, I can’t—I won’t be bound to the Order any longer. I will break this chain, whatever the cost to myself. But … I would not put the Inquisition at risk.”

“How do you propose to keep from doing that?”

“I have asked Cassandra to watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised … she will see that I am relieved from duty.” Even in the extremity of his embarrassment, he didn’t miss the way Thule’s face softened when Cassandra’s name came up.

“Well, if anyone can be trusted to tell a man when he has failed to measure up, she can.” Thule grinned briefly, then sobered. “For what it’s worth, I respect what you’re doing, and why.”

“But you worry.”

“Of course. That’s half the job.” Thule smiled again, softer this time, and took his leave.

Only when he was gone did Cullen see the other dwarf who stood in the doorway, her eyes wide as she stared at him. “So that’s why you’ve been in such pain. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Dagna, I …” Why hadn’t he told her? He had told her everything else. “I …” The words came from him without thought. “I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

“Cullen. How could I?” She came toward him. “But I could help.”

“With magic?” he asked softly.

“I’m a dwarf.”

“You are a dwarf with more magic at your fingertips than many mages; it merely works differently.”

“Oh.” Dagna’s cheeks pinkened. “That’s very sweet of you to say.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Then you won’t let me help?”

“Just … talk to me. That helps.” He looked down at her, studying the curves of her face and the brightness of her eyes. Her cheerfulness had drawn him out of the dark many times already; didn’t she know that? “It helps a great deal.”

“Then, in that case …” She reached for the box that still lay open on the desk, closing it and tucking it away on a shelf, and then she took a chair. Within moments, she was chattering away, and Cullen was able to go back to work to the soothing sound of her voice.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Lilias found her sister in the tavern, alone at a corner table with a bottle in her hand. As Lilias approached the table, Bethany picked up the bottle and tipped it back, drinking long. 

“I never knew you to drink so much before,” Lilias said, taking a seat across from her sister.

To all appearances completely sober, Bethany stared at her before swigging from the bottle again. “Welcome to the Grey Wardens.”

“I’m not a Warden.”

“Then don’t judge me.”

Lilias bit her lip, trying not to snap at her sister. “I wasn’t judging you. Just making a comment.”

“Pretty judgy comment, if you ask me. But then, you didn’t ask me, did you? Never did. Maker forbid anyone but Lilias the Wise make any decisions or have any input into the running of their own lives.”

“That’s not how it was! You would have died down there if it wasn’t for the Grey Wardens!”

“Wake up, Lilias! I did die down there—my body just hasn’t gotten the message yet.” Bethany stood up, the chair scraping loudly on the floor as she kicked it behind her, staring down at Lilias. “Grey Wardens are nothing more than walking corpses.” Before Lilias could respond, Bethany looked up and a dark, sardonic smile twisted her beautiful face. “Oh, and there he is. The Grey Knight, here to save the day and stand up for his precious brothers and sisters of the blood.”

“Shut up,” Alistair hissed, appearing suddenly over Lilias’s shoulder and grabbing Bethany’s arm. 

“Am I giving away Grey Warden secrets? Silly me, what could I have been thinking?”

“Have some loyalty! That’s your family—and mine—you’re talking about.”

“My family, is it, Your Majesty?” Bethany’s amber eyes blazed at him. Lilias was on her feet, disturbed by the undercurrents between the two of them but aware that anything she might do to break them apart would cause an even greater scene. “My ‘family’ tried to kill me. Should I protect them after that?”

Alistair faltered, the righteous anger fading from his eyes. “Surely …”

“I’m mistaken? Yes, I’m sure I was. I’m sure that when Sigrun ran her daggers through Velanna, that was a mistake. Shall we dig Velanna up and ask her how mistaken she was about dying?”

“Sigrun killed Velanna?”

“Yes.” Bethany swallowed, trying to hold on to her anger, but she was shrinking, diminishing, sorrow overtaking her as Lilias stood by helplessly. “Velanna didn’t believe it was the Calling, she didn’t want to go through any ritual to bind a demon to her, and she called the others the fools that they were.” A faint, mocking smile came to Bethany’s face as tears sprang to her eyes. “You know Velanna, never afraid to speak her mind.” The tears welled up and rolled down her face as she went on, her voice cracking and breaking. “I buried her, my sister in the Grey, in my heart, the way she and her people do; I snuck back when they were gone. If—if I hadn’t run …” The sobs took her entirely, as she sagged against the table, her mouth open as she released the terror and the agony and the betrayal of the past months.

Alistair looked as though someone had struck him between the eyes, and Lilias had never wanted more fiercely to take him in her arms than she did at that moment. She wanted to hold Bethany, too, to take her sister’s pain away, but Bethany was far from her reach, locked in her own grief and anguish. All these years of fighting, of struggling, and here she was as helpless as she had ever been. What had it all been for?

“What ritual?” Alistair asked at last, hoarsely. “Bethany, what ritual is this? What do you mean, bind a demon to her?”

With a visible effort, Bethany gathered herself. “They—there was an elf, a Warden Commander from—from the Marches, Hatharel. He—he was looking … looking for Corypheus. I told Caron, I told her, and she—she didn’t believe me.” She gave a long shuddering breath, shaking her head, fresh tears beginning to seep from the corners of her eyes. “Hatharel said—said we could stop the Blights, said this ritual, we could—we could have the power of the spirits to—to defeat the darkspawn. And they believed him. They told us, Velanna and me, they told us we had to do it, for the greater good. And she—“

“Maker’s blood.” Alistair passed a hand over his face. “I knew it couldn’t be good, but I had no idea, no idea at all.” He caught Bethany by the shoulders. “We have to stop them!”

She laughed through her tears. “Good luck.”

“Are you just going to sit here and drink?” he demanded.

“Alistair.” 

His head snapped around when Lilias said his name, something bright appearing in his eyes for just a moment. “What?”

“This isn’t the time. Let’s let the Inquisitor investigate what’s out there in the Western Approach, and when we know, we can make plans.” Lilias felt the confidence surging in her as she spoke, the certainty that she could and would do something about this problem rising. This was how it had felt to be the Champion of Kirkwall; this was what she had lost when the Chantry fell. This and so much more. She touched Bethany gently on the arm. “Come with me. Let’s get you to bed.”

“You think I can sleep?” Bethany asked her. “When those I trusted the most turned on me, you think I can ever feel safe and sleep again?”

Lilias took her sister’s face in her hands, looking deeply into Bethany’s eyes. “I will never turn on you. Never. You can sleep because I’ll be with you.”

She could see Bethany readying another darkly bitter remark, but something held it back, and at last she nodded wearily. Lilias put her arm around her sister and led her from the tavern.


	10. With a Broken Wing

_He paused outside the training ring. Fresh snow was falling, and most were inside the tavern, drinking, or in their tents, amusing themselves in other ways. Thule had had a few invitations to do both, but had surprised himself by not being particularly interested. He had been invited to come pray in the Chantry, as well, but Thule generally found prayer more satisfying when he could do it alone. He didn’t like the Maker to be too distracted when Thule talked to him._

_And so now, just as he had planned, here he was on the training grounds with Cassandra, all but alone. Cullen was there, practicing, as he so often was, over-heated and shirtless with the exertion. There was a man who ought to be in someone’s tent, Thule thought, but Cullen seemed uninterested in such things._

_Unless, Thule thought with a flash of jealousy, the shirtlessness and the sweat were for Cassandra’s benefit. He watched them both with narrowed eyes, but each had eyes only for their own blade._

_He leaned against a post behind Cassandra and watched her work. She executed a whirl and a slash and then a deft reverse strike that sank the blade neatly where the training dummy’s jugular would have been. On a human, at least._

_Thule cleared his throat, and Cassandra turned to look at him. Did her cheeks turn pink at the sight of him, or was that the exercise?_

_“You’re like a force of nature.” He tried not to think of what she might be like if she turned that focus and passion to more pleasurable tasks._

_She raised an eyebrow. “When I must be.”_

_“It’s impressive.” He meant it, too. She was a superb fighter, amongst her other gifts._

_Cassandra frowned. “You flatter me.”_

_“I’m trying.” He grinned, but she turned away, her eyes studying the green slash in the sky._

_“Did I do the right thing?” Leaving the sword stuck in the dummy, she walked across the grounds. Cullen glanced up, apparently decided to leave them alone, and returned to his forms. As Thule followed her, Cassandra went on, “I could be destroying everything I have ever believed in, for nothing. One day, my name might appear in the history books as a traitor, a madwoman. A fool. And they might be right.” Her grey eyes were full on Thule’s now, searching his face for condemnation._

_“And your faith? What does it say?”_

_“That you are innocent,” she responded unhesitatingly. “And that there is more going on here than we can understand, much more than the Chantry is willing to admit—or deal with. They will stand in the fire and complain that it is hot.” Shaking her head, she added, “I believe this was the only way. And I know that you are the only one who can close the Breach. Those things together meant that there was no time to wait for the Chantry.”_

_“They didn’t leave you much of a choice.”_

_“Or did they?” She looked away again, her grey eyes distant, seeing things from the past that made her doubt herself. “My trainers always told me I was too hasty. Too brash. Too little disposed to thinking before I acted.”_

_They had? Thule found that hard to believe. The woman in front of him thought too much, if anything. Privately, he decided her trainers had been idiots._

_She must have sensed his thoughts, because the corner of her mouth turned up and she looked down at him with humor lurking in the back of her eyes. “You don’t agree; but you of all people ought to. I misjudged you in the beginning—I thought the answer was before me, clear as day. But … there is nothing clear about y—about this situation. There is more to it, much more, than meets the eye.” She frowned, then, studying him if anything more carefully. “Do you believe in the Maker?”_

_He nodded._

_“Then perhaps we were both put on this path for a reason.”_

_Thule smiled. “I look forward to seeing where it leads us.”_

As he trudged along, Thule reflected that Harding had been right—the Western Approach may well be the worst place in the world. Between the heat, the sun, and the sand, he found himself almost missing Haven.

Of course, if Cassandra were willing to take her shirt off, he thought speculatively … but this was hardly the time, and sweaty and covered with sand—and no doubt sunburnt—was no way to see that sight for the first time. Not to mention, he hardly wanted to share such a marvel. Although with Alistair and Hawke alternately avoiding one another and shooting longing glances at each other, his own distraction with Cassandra, and the Iron Bull and Vivienne battling for dominance over one another, the whole group’s concentration of unsatisfied lust was nearly enough to be a weapon in and of itself.

He grinned to himself at the idea, of bowling over their enemies with a steady stream of lustful thoughts. He must actually have chuckled, because Cassandra looked at him with concern.

“Inquisitor? Are you all right?”

Clearly he wasn’t, because he actually considered sharing his thoughts with her. No doubt she’d think he was suffering from heatstroke. Maybe he was—a sobering thought. “I’m fine,” he assured her.

She nodded, looking up and shading her eyes with her hand. “It should not be much farther now, if Harding’s directions are to be believed.”

“Little redhead never got anything wrong before,” grunted the Iron Bull. “Redhead. Wonder if it's all red.” He chuckled.

“Please, my dear,” Vivienne said icily. “There is no need to be crude.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

Thule wondered again if the Qunari was merely shining the mage on or if he truly was frightened enough of her to be willing to kowtow, at least verbally. He had to admit that if he were going to be afraid of a mage, Vivienne would be pretty high on his list.

“There,” Cassandra said, pointing to a structure that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Sun and sand probably made it look closer than it was, but still, Thule could have sworn it wasn’t there a moment ago.

With a steely, determined look, Alistair sped up, sand flying up behind him with each step.

“Alistair, wait!” Hawke hurried after him.

Cassandra grumbled about the unnecessary exertion of haste, but she, too, quickened her pace. It wasn’t long before they had all outstripped Thule. It was rare that he felt inadequate as a dwarf, but he did now. 

The Iron Bull turned and walked backward facing him. “Want a ride?” He gestured to his broad shoulders.

Thule frowned. “Which is less dignified, riding a Qunari or arriving late to the party?”

“You’re asking me? Not exactly an expert on dignity, boss.”

“You talk a good game, but you're a lot more than you pretend to be,” Thule told him. 

The Iron Bull grinned, but didn’t disagree.

“You go on ahead, but thanks for the offer.” 

“Whatever you say, boss.” In no time, the Qunari was off in the distance with the others. Thule tried to run, but the sand stuck under his boots and he nearly tripped and fell flat on his face.

When he arrived, the others were embroiled in an argument with an elegant man who spoke with a strong Tevinter accent. He looked up at Thule’s approach. “Inquisitor. You join us at last.” He bowed. “Lord Livius Erimond of Vyrantium, at your service.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“Yeah, we told him that, boss.” The Iron Bull was visibly tense; whatever was going on here, it was bad if the Qunari was letting his emotions show.

“You all seem remarkably concerned about my welfare. Most courteous of you.”

Thule glanced around, seeing a pile of lifeless bodies in Warden uniforms, and a cadre of other Wardens standing in a corner, with demons at their sides. Demons? No wonder the Iron Bull was freaking out.

Alistair was standing in front of them, looking equal parts anguished and enraged. “Can’t you see that he is lying to you? There is no Calling! This man and the ancient magister he serves are trying to unleash a Blight!”

Hawke put her hand on his arm, the first time Thule had seen her willingly touch him, and said softly, “They can’t hear you.”

“No, they most certainly cannot,” Erimond said, his face lighting with amusement. He raised an arm, and so did all the Wardens, in a jerky, mechanical movement.

“You son of a bitch,” Alistair said bitterly. 

“How easy it was to frighten them into giving over their entire beings.” Erimond studied Alistair with interest. “I wonder why it didn’t work on you? Perhaps you are more intelligent than you have been given credit for.” He shrugged. “No matter, really. We shall just kill you now.”

“I can’t believe the Wardens went along with this,” Cassandra said.

“Went along with it? They think it was their idea! Such a simple plan—raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads, and kill all the Old Gods before they can be awakened.”

Alistair looked thoughtful for a moment, and the Iron Bull snapped, “Which part of ‘demon army’ did you miss?”

Thule nodded. “I was wondering when we were going to get to the demon army bit.”

“You knew about this?” Hawke asked him.

“I’d heard … things.” He didn’t like to think about his time in the Fade at Therinfal Redoubt. He devoutly hoped never to see the unnatural place again.

“This was the ritual Bethany meant,” Hawke whispered sadly. She shivered, clearly seeing her sister amongst these enslaved creatures in her mind’s eye.

“Ah, let’s just kill this asshole already,” growled the Iron Bull.

“My sentiments exactly.” Thule drew his daggers, and battle was joined. It was surprisingly satisfying to sink his daggers into demons … but it was clear Alistair was having a hard time fighting his fellow Wardens, under Corypheus’s thumb or not. Eventually, Cassandra and the Iron Bull shoved him toward the demons and did what needed to be done themselves.

Thule joined the King of Ferelden when it was all over and he was looking over the bodies. “Friends of yours?”

“No. These must all be Orlesian Wardens; I don’t recognize any of them.” He gave Thule a stricken look. “I don’t know if that’s a relief or not. What if—I don’t even want to think about what’s happening to the rest of them.”

“Why weren’t you affected?”

“I wish I knew. Farther away? More cares of state to keep my mind occupied? More experience with a Blight and what an Archdemon’s song truly sounds like?” He sighed heavily. “I don’t know whether to wish I was with them or be glad I’m not. Almost like—“ He caught himself, a sorrowful expression crossing his face, and turned away.

Hawke watched him go with troubled eyes, but didn’t follow him.

Thule went to help with the clean-up. Erimond had made his escape at some point during the battle. They would have to track him down, him and the rest of the Wardens, and put an end to this.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen strode up and down the line of soldiers, studying each of them. They weren’t ready, his head told him. They needed more training—much more. But his heart whispered to him of their heroism, their stalwart stand, at Haven. If they had done it then, they could do it now.

But how much longer? The Inquisitor’s raven from the Western Approach had sent Leliana’s people into a scramble, hunting for the rest of the Wardens. There could be no battle until she found them.

Over the heads of his soldiers, he watched Bethany Hawke move through the courtyard, her head down, making little dashes here and there trying not to be noticed. A raven with a broken wing, he thought, sore at heart when he remembered the innocent young girl he had met in Kirkwall. There was something in Bethany now that was chillingly reminiscent to him of what Leyden had looked like, the last time he saw her in the Tower. Painfully thin, her eyes burning in her gaunt face. At least Leyden had had Leliana then, he thought, and with the thought his eyes lifted to the balcony by the rookery, finding the slender hooded figure there, her gaze unmistakably turned toward the shadowy figure of Bethany.

For a heartbeat, he envied her, finding someone to fill her heart again, to warm the cold place left in Leyden’s wake. But then he looked at Bethany again, and he pitied Leliana for the pain that lay before her if she pursued this, and blessed his own good fortune that another woman hadn’t crossed his path to tempt his heart. It was too damaged to give away again, anyway.

He let the troops go and turned toward the gardens, where he was meeting Dagna for a game of chess, not even noticing the way his steps—and his heart—lightened as he went.


	11. The Eve of Battle

Cullen looked over the War Table, his hand hovering above one of the pieces. He knew them all; he could visualize the faces of the soldiers they symbolized and could practically see them marching. But toward what? The Inquisitor’s field report had been sketchy at best.

He could hear people coming down the hall toward the War Room, subdued voices, and he removed his hand from the table and straightened his back, waiting. The headache hovered just at the back of his neck, as it always did, tightening the muscles there and straining the tendons, but it was nothing he couldn’t endure.

“Ah, Cullen, already ahead of us. Prepared as always, I hope?” The Inquisitor smiled, but there was a weariness in his eyes.

“Of course. Just waiting for orders.”

“Never that.” Thule shook his head. “I want your counsel before we make any commitments.”

Cassandra was behind the Inquisitor, and Leliana and King Alistair and Hawke and Bethany. Josephine was moving more slowly down the hall, reading as she walked. She looked up as she came in, only then realizing they were all ahead of her.

“I am so sorry. This letter—the duchess’s handwriting is so terribly small. I apologize for letting it distract me.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Josie,” Leliana told her. “You were only a moment behind the rest of us.”

“Oh, I am glad.” Josephine slid a fresh sheet of paper onto her ever-present board and took up her quill.

The Inquisitor quickly summarized what they had found in the Western Approach. Bethany closed her eyes during the recital, her face drawn with pain. Alistair looked lost, dazed by what he had seen.

“None of the Fereldan Wardens were there,” Hawke said, glancing between the King and her sister. “I … suppose they’re with the rest of the Wardens? We found letters that said the Wardens are gathering at Adamant Fortress.”

“We have to go there.” Cassandra glanced with some sympathy at the two Wardens in the room, and then away. She had never let emotion keep her from her duty. “If Corypheus is building a demon army …”

“You’re right,” Alistair said hoarsely. “Whatever has happened to the Wardens, we do them no favors by letting them remain under the control of Corypheus—and their own fears.”

Bethany nodded. Her amber eyes were bright with tears, and a single drop rolled slowly down her cheek.

“Then the armies of the Inquisition will be with you. And ready,” Cullen said grimly. “They—we have all been looking for a chance to get back at Corypheus for Haven.”

“That we have.” Thule nodded. He looked up at Cullen inquisitively. “Are you joining us, Commander?”

“If you’ll have me.”

“Nothing I’d like better than to know you’re leading our armies.”

Cullen nodded gravely. The headache tightened at the back of his neck and started to throb, and he wondered, with a sudden sharp apprehension, if he could get through a battle without the lyrium. He had done it at Haven, but Haven had been a surprise attack—and, regardless of what anyone else might think, Cullen knew that at Haven, he had failed. Would he fail again at Adamant?  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Alistair listened to the plans being made around him, but he felt distant from them. As though he were lost in a fog, hearing voices from somewhere else, talking about something that didn’t matter.  
But it did matter, because these were the Grey Wardens. These were his friends, his family, his people, in a way that few understood. Fereldans were supposed to be his people, and they were, but the Grey Wardens shared the taint in his blood. They were connected to him under the skin and in the beating of their hearts, pumping that blackened blood through their veins. The Wardens in Amaranthine had saved him in those first months after the Blight; he had made himself a bit of a nuisance with Caron, hovering about whenever he could get away from Denerim. Anders’ bright cheer, before … everything … Sigrun’s jokes, her hands always in his pocket looking for something to steal. Velanna, so haughty and unapproachable, reminding him inescapably of Morrigan. Nate, so glum and downcast, but underneath it beginning to heal from the wounds his father’s death—and life—had left him with. And Oghren, Alistair’s drinking buddy, veteran of the Blight, his red beard bristling. Where were they now, Nate and Oghren and Sigrun? What were they doing? How was it possible those intelligent people had fallen so neatly into Corypheus’s trap?

Surely, the friends and families of the Orlesian Wardens must be asking themselves the same thing, he thought. Wondering where it had all gone wrong. He had to remember that his fellow Wardens were the victims; he had to make sure everyone remembered.

He drew his attention back to the plans for the assault. He couldn’t commit the Fereldan army to a joint task force with the Inquisition, not without having to do a lot of fast-talking with his advisors. Particularly his uncle Teagan, who had been uncharacteristically angry with the Inquisition for their actions in the Hinterlands and Redcliffe. Why, Alistair wasn’t certain, unless it was that they made Teagan look bad by fixing the mess there before he could. Teagan as he aged was becoming even more rigid than Eamon had been, and Alistair was sad to see it.

He didn’t explain the political issues to the others in the room, however; he let them think the army wasn’t in a position to be mobilized quickly, which was close enough to true that he could lie unblushingly. Leliana glanced at him sharply, but she didn’t say anything, and he hoped she wouldn’t try to probe too deeply into his hesitance.

When the meeting was over, Alistair wanted to settle a personal curiosity. He ambled casually down to the barn, finding the man who called himself Warden Blackwall carving a small statue of a gryphon. 

Blackwall looked up. “Oh. It’s you. I’ve been wondering.”

“You know I know.”

“Figured you would.” His face set, hard and unreadable. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re wanting to know.”

“Among other things, it was.” Alistair leaned against the doorway. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Are you going to give me away?”

Alistair frowned. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly. “They tell me I’m not a great judge of character, so I probably should … but you’ve been here this long under Leliana’s eye, and she’s let you stay. If she trusts you around her Inquisitor, then that counts for more with me than the fact that you aren’t who you say you are. Running from something?”

Blackwall hesitated. “You could say that.”

“Some of us wish we could.” It was the first time he had said it aloud, that he wished with all his heart he could run from being king, run toward something he wanted, while he still had some life left to live.

“No, you don’t. Take it from me.” Blackwall turned back to the gryphon, his carving knife running smoothly over its curves, minute shavings drifting off of it.

“Just … one question.”

Blackwall held still, waiting, but he didn’t look at Alistair again.

“Did he die well?”

“Does anyone?”

“In battle, I meant.”

“Yes. Against darkspawn.”

Alistair nodded, satisfied. “As a Warden should.”  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Varric could tell what was up just by watching the faces as the others left the War Room. The Inquisition was going to battle. Which meant he was going to battle.

His only experience with real combat, soldiers and all, had been at Haven. Oh, sure, the fight against Meredith and her Templars in Kirkwall had been battle-like, but not what you might call formally joined. He didn’t mind admitting, at least to himself, that he was scared shitless. Varric quite liked living. He liked watching people and writing about them, he liked the warmth of the fire behind him and the feel of his comfortable chair. He liked good food and wine and witty banter with friends. He liked having Hawke around again, even a Hawke with shadows in her eyes. He liked nice clothes and a soft bed and a hot bath at the end of the day—and the prospect that any day now Bianca might show up to relieve him of the clothes, share the bed, and lounge naked in the bath.

Varric dragged his thoughts away from that last image sternly. No time to dwell on that kind of thinking, no time at all. There never was, really. If she was away, he was better off not thinking about her, and if she was here, there was almost always a complication. If this was a story, he’d slap his character in the face and call him an idiot.

He chuckled at the image. Hawke would probably do just that if he ever told her the true story of Bianca—but then, Hawke was hardly one to talk, carrying the image of the King of Ferelden around practically embroidered on her sleeve.

Drawing a piece of paper to him, he tried to work on the next chapter of _Hard in Hightown_ , but what came to his pen was something else.

_Dear Bianca,_  
We’re heading into battle. Not something I’m sure you ever imagined hearing me say, and I bet the picture in your mind is pretty ridiculous. Hold onto it, because if you’re reading this, it’s the last image of me you’ll ever have, and I want you to have something to laugh at.  
What we’ve had together has been stupid, and glorious, and wickedly illicit, and dangerous, and I wouldn’t have missed a minute. Sometimes I wish there had been a lot more minutes, and sometimes I’m glad they’ve been so few, because they’ve all been branded on my memory. Don’t ask me why I’ve gotten all mushy in the imminence of combat. Must be in the air. Lots of hearts and flowers around here … or people wishing for them, which is close enough.  
Looks like I won’t see you before we go, unless you show up unexpectedly in the middle of the fighting, and I wouldn’t put it past you. In case I don’t make it back, you should know there’s an account in your name in Kirkwall, and deeds to a few pieces of property in a safebox at Hawke’s estate. My publishers richly deserve you and all the pain you’re likely to bring into their lives suing for my royalties—soak them good on my behalf, will you?   
If I ever did tell anyone our story, I doubt they’d understand, but I do, and I wouldn’t change a thing.  
Varric 

He would leave it, with the runed stone, in the lockbox Josephine kept for him in her office. Josephine was a good egg, trustworthy, and she knew how to be discreet.

He blotted the letter, rolling it and sealing it, and got up to see who might be up for a game of Wicked Grace. It had to beat moping around waiting to be told where to point Bianca.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
After dinner, Thule went looking for Cassandra. He tried not to; he tried to think of other things to do, other people to talk to. There was no shortage. But she was where he wanted to be, and with the army preparing to move out, more tonight than usual. They fought together all the time—she was with him practically everywhere he went, her shield always at his side. But this felt different, more formal.

It must have felt so to her, too, because he finally found her bent over the War Table, staring at all the pieces on the march toward Adamant fortress.

She didn’t turn as he came in, as if she had been expecting him. Maybe she had. “Do you know that all of this once belonged to Tevinter? Andraste changed all that. And the Blights. What does the Maker have planned next? Will we change the map, too?”

“We already have,” Thule said, gesturing to Skyhold around them. “We’re making the world a better place.”

“Yes, because everyone agrees on what ‘better’ means." She sighed. "I want a world in which we respect tradition but do not fear change, in which we right past wrongs rather than avenging them. But I do not know how many agree with me, and I do not know if my wanting these things makes them right.”

“They’re laudable goals, at least.”

“Perhaps. But it takes precious little effort to paint even an act of compassion as damaging.” She looked down at him, her eyes wide, searching for something in his face. “What is it that guides you? You make decisions that shake the world, yet you always seem so assured. I wish I had your confidence.”

Thule was startled into a laugh. “I wish I had yours. It’s all in your perspective, I guess.” He frowned at her thoughtfully. “You almost sound like you admire me. I’m just a dwarf, you know. Until this—“ he raised his hand where the Anchor flashed—“I was nothing more than a petty criminal.”

“It is because of that that I do admire you. I may not always agree, but I cannot imagine anyone else who could do what you have done. You were a prisoner, reviled by everyone. I was convinced of your guilt, as were so many others. But you have emerged from every trial victorious. And your background … You have come up from nothing to become very much something. That is worthy of admiration.”

He felt as if he must be glowing from her praise. He wanted to melt into the floor. Without thinking, he stepped closer to her, very close, and looked up into those wide grey eyes, so unusually soft and vulnerable. “If I’m guided by anything, it’s you.” He wished he had Varric’s command of language, to tell her all the ways that she moved and inspired him. 

She swallowed as if his words had touched her unexpectedly, but her reply was tart. “The blind leading the blind.”

Thule reached for her hands, folding them into his, amazed that she allowed it, that she curled her fingers around his so willingly. “I don’t think you’re blind.”

“Clearly you haven’t been paying attention,” she said.

Their eyes held each other, the moment heady around them, the very air intoxicating. “Haven’t I?” he asked softly, his meaning clear. He had been paying attention to nothing but her practically since they met, and he was fairly sure she knew it.

For a brief second, he thought there might be something, he thought she might lean down and … But she pulled her hands away, holding them together behind her back as if she didn’t want them free to move of their own volition. “If anyone had told me when we first met that I would be pleased to have you lead me, I would have throttled them.”

He laughed. “I’m sure you would have. Especially if it had been me.”

Cassandra’s answering smile warmed him all through. “The Maker chose very well.”

“Thank you. I hope … I hope we can call each other friends.”

“I hope so, too.” She nodded, but she also turned away, toward the door. “We still have a long road to travel, Inquisitor, but wherever it takes us … I’m glad you’re here.”

Thule watched her go. For now, friends was enough. More than enough. But someday …   
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Even as Bethany rushed off to her room, Lilias followed her. Bethany probably didn’t want her to, but this was her little sister—it had been Lilias’s job to protect her all their lives. She wasn’t going to stop now. 

She pushed the door closed behind her. Bethany was standing on the far side of the room, one hand on the night table to steady herself, tears rolling down her face in a steady stream. Her utter silence was more pathetic to Lilias’s eye than the loudest sobs would have been. The pain went too deep to voice.

“I have to go,” Bethany said at last.

“Not if you don’t want to,” Lilias responded automatically, but in the end it was true—they were facing down the Grey Wardens, and Bethany had to go. 

Her sister didn’t bother to negate the optimistic statement, and they stood there, looking at each other, for a long time.

“Father always told me that I was the strong one,” Lilias said. “In his endless lectures about how I had to protect you and Carver, about my responsibilities toward the family, he always said I was the strong one. He said you were delicate, and Carver was brittle, and I had to be strong.”

“Tell me something I didn’t know.”

“No, but he was wrong. Because … because I broke, Bethany. Kirkwall broke me. Anders … Alistair … Mother … it was all too much. I couldn’t stand under it. But you—you’re still here, and you’re still strong, and you’re still fighting.”

Bethany shook her head. “I gave up. I ran and hid.”

“You stayed alive, Bethany. You stayed alive, and you brought your information to me, and through me to the Inquisition. You brought me back and made me be part of the world again—I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.” She took a careful step toward her sister. “Whatever I make of my life from here, I owe it to you.”

“There was a time when I would have given anything to hear those words from my fearless big sister.”

“I was never fearless.”

“I know that now, now that it’s too late. If you had ever—Lilias, if you had ever shared that with me, if I could have known you …”

“We can have that now!” 

Bethany simply looked at her, sorrowfully, and Lilias understood that her sister fully expected to die at Adamant.

“Then you don’t go,” she said forcefully. “You don’t go. You … you get away before the armies march. I’ll help you. Varric will know a—“

“No.”

“But—“

“Not this time. I ran for my life before because it was the only thing I could do, because I was afraid. I didn’t understand what I was feeling, what my friends were feeling. But I do now, and if I go to Adamant, maybe—maybe I can stop this. Maybe I can save them,” she finished in a whisper.

Lilias reached out for her little sister, and she felt Bethany’s thin arms close around her. “I love you, Bethany.”

“I love you, too. No matter what else I’ve said, I love you, too.” They clung to one another for a long time, before Bethany withdrew from the embrace. “There’s … something I have to do. I’ll see you on the march, all right?”

“All right.” 

Bethany left the room, leaving Lilias standing there alone. Truly alone. “No,” she said out loud, firmly. “Father, Mother, no. This will not happen. Not if I can help it.”  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana knelt before the statue of Andraste in the rookery, waiting for words to come, but she didn’t know what to pray for. She hadn’t had words for the Maker in a long time. Not since the Conclave. Not since long before the Conclave, if she were being honest with herself. And if she couldn’t be honest with herself, then she truly had become what Marjolaine made her.

She heard a sound behind her, a soft scuffing of shoes on the floor, and she turned. Bethany stood there at the top of the stairs, watching her. A small smile crossed Bethany’s face. “I’m sorry, were you waiting to pray?”

Leliana smiled, too, in acknowledgement of their first meeting. “I was hoping to pray. As I do every time I kneel before the Maker’s Bride.”

“But you can’t?”

“No. Not in … a very long time.”

“Since my cousin?”

The room was silent other than the rustlings of the birds, all the scouts at dinner or in bed, and the silence stretched between them until eventually Leliana yielded. “Yes. In truth, since then.”

“She must have been quite something.”

“She was. As are you.”

Bethany smiled, a hint of bitterness in the corner of her mouth. “I’m surprised you remembered me. I was hardly worth it.”

“There was always steel in you. If—if we had had longer, perhaps I could have helped you find it.” Leliana had taken a hesitant step toward the other woman, and she half-expected Bethany to turn and leave, but she stayed where she was.

“It’s kind of you to say so.”

“It’s not kind. It’s true. Kind would be to tell you … well, in truth, under the circumstances, I don’t know if it would be kinder to tell you that you meant nothing to me, or kinder to tell you that it was true love.”

“You know, then.”

“That you must go to Adamant? Of course you must. That you expect to die there? You wouldn’t be here if you did not.”

Bethany smiled more fully this time. “That’s true enough. You’re very good at your job.”

“Yes. Sometimes I wish that things were different. That I was different. But … this is where I have come in my life.”

“You’re doing good work.”

“I am. So why do I feel so empty?” Leliana asked in a whisper.

“My life was preserved—why do I feel so angry?” Bethany shrugged. “Perhaps it’s because neither of us is where we wanted to be.”

Leliana met the other woman’s amber eyes across the space between them. “Perhaps … perhaps tonight we could pretend—“

“That we had the chance to choose?”

“Yes.”

Bethany nodded, slowly, and Leliana reached out a hand, taking Bethany’s in hers and drawing her toward a door almost hidden in the wall nearby. Inside it was Leliana’s room, furnished as simply as if she was still in the Chantry.

It had been a long time since their last kiss, and both of them were tentative as their lips met, each fighting to find the woman she had been in the woman she’d become. But as they kissed, they relaxed, their bodies warming into each other. 

In keeping with the roles they were inhabiting, Leliana moved first, unbuttoning Bethany’s shirt slowly, a single button at a time, soft kisses on the skin as it was revealed. And then the shirt was sliding off Bethany’s shoulders and down her arms, and just as slowly Leliana removed the breastband, making the moment last before she moved her hands up over Bethany’s stomach to cup the firm breasts in her hands.

Bethany growled low in her throat. Her hands cupped the side of Leliana’s face, her mouth hungrily seeking Leliana’s. This kiss was passionate, firm, demanding, the kiss of a woman who knew what she wanted, where the last had been that of the young girl she had once been, softer and more tentative. Leliana felt her own hunger rising; how long had it been? She could not remember. 

The rest of their clothes came off, piece by piece, as that hot, hungry kiss went on. At last they tumbled together to Leliana’s bed, Bethany’s leg curving around Leliana’s hip to hold them together. Her mouth found Leliana’s breast, tugging at the nipple, suckling hard, so that Leliana felt the pull of it, the sweetness and the ache, all the way to her core. She held Bethany’s dark head against her, wanting more.

Bethany pushed her back against the pillows, straddling Leliana’s hips. Her tongue danced over Leliana’s nipples, her hands squeezing and massaging the sensitive breasts. Leliana’s fingers clutched Bethany’s hips, holding on hard, her legs moving restlessly as the pleasure and the need rose in her.

“Please touch me,” she whispered at last. Sister Nightingale, the Left Hand of the Divine, the Inquisition's Spymaster, would never beg, but tonight she could pretend to be just Leliana, and Leliana could ask for what she wanted.

Bethany shifted just enough to reach between Leliana’s legs. Her hand slid up and down the sensitive skin on the inside of Leliana’s thighs, up and down, slowly, gently, maddening as the fingertips just brushed Leliana’s core.

Leliana lifted her hips to get closer to those fingers. She drew Bethany’s head down to hers and kissed her again, wildly, and Bethany relented, stroking and circling as Leliana moaned into her mouth.

She caressed Bethany’s back, her hands wandering up and down, but Bethany was so thin Leliana could feel her ribs and each knob of her spine, and that was too much like reality. She reached around to touch Bethany, sliding her fingers through the moisture she found there.

Bethany gave a keening cry when Leliana’s fingers moved inside her, thrusting back with her hips. She mimicked the motion between Leliana’s legs, and they rocked together, kissing passionately, their sighs and moans almost sobs into each other’s mouth, the release emotional as well as physical when it came. They clung together, weeping silently, each for her own lost dreams. At some point, the kissing began again, and with it the touching, and so it went for the rest of the night, giving and taking, losing themselves in dreams of what might have been.


	12. Vigilance, Victory, Sacrifice

When the army left Skyhold, taking Bethany with it, Leliana wasn’t watching. They had agreed on that. After all, there was nothing between them, nothing real. What they had shared was a mutual fantasy, a dream. Bethany believed she was going to Adamant to die, and if, by some miracle, as she put it, she did not, the Grey Wardens would need her. She would not be free to return.

They hadn’t even said good-bye. Not really. Morning had come, and they had risen from bed and put their clothes back on and resumed their real lives, leaving Leliana’s little cell together and going their separate ways.

Leliana was truly alone now. She had been, since Leyden … since long before Leyden, if she was being honest with herself. Leyden had never been hers in any way that would have lasted. 

Dorothea had filled the emptiness in Leliana’s heart in her own way, giving her a cause and a purpose and a different way to see the Maker, but she was gone now, too, and all that remained was to decide what to do with herself and her talents. For now there was the Inquisition, but afterward? Corypheus would die—Leliana believed that, believed that Thule would prevail. He was that kind of man. And when Corypheus was dead, would the world need an Inquisition? Or would it need someone else, someone to lead Thedas into a new day?

Kneeling before the Maker’s Bride, Leliana found the words flowing from her, and she prayed for guidance, for strength, and for the courage to do what must be done.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen watched the trebuchet as it flung its ammunition toward the wall. It struck, chunks of stone flying up from where it hit. “Just like that,” he told the soldier manning the machine, clapping him on the shoulder approvingly. “Again.”

The attack on Adamant was going well—the Inquisition was on the verge of breaking through the door, the soldiers had scaled the walls and were fighting along the ramparts, and the Inquisitor’s team was poised, ready to head through the door as soon as it was breached. 

The tension in his neck had spread; his back was a sheet of pain from top to bottom. But he was standing, and he was clear-headed, and he was commanding the army, and he was doing it all without the need for lyrium. That in itself was a triumph.

The doors shattered with a loud crack, and the soldiers cheered. 

Cullen joined Thule and his party just outside the doors. “You have your way in, Inquisitor.”

“We’ll make good use of it,” Thule promised.

“And we will keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can.”

“Just keep the men safe.”

Cullen wasn’t certain if that was a reflection on his command or an indication that Thule was less soldier and more independent operator, but it stung just a bit that the Inquisitor thought he wouldn’t take the best care possible of their men. Of course, Haven had hardly been his best moment, but today he was rising above Haven, proving himself to the Inquisition. “We will do what must be done, Inquisitor,” he snapped. “Maker go with you.”

Thule nodded. “And with you.”  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Varric hefted Bianca. “Well, here we go, sweetheart.” He liked to think of himself as a dwarf you could count on, but after all those years in Kirkwall with Hawke, and now the Inquisition, he was beginning to wonder if he was too old for this shit.

A fireball exploded not far from him, and he flinched, reflexively checking the sleeve of his coat for scorch marks. Yep, definitely getting too old for this.

Ahead of him, the King of Ferelden was grim-faced and determined, bashing his way through demons with his shield. Stones was his usual flashing shadow, appearing with his daggers just where you least expected him. The Seeker fought with her usual skill and precision, and Chuckles worked his magic efficiently. He never seemed to get emotional about a fight—just did what needed to be done when it needed to be done. Varric didn’t distrust the elf … but he didn’t trust him, either.

Daisy, now, on the other side, was less precise but more passionate. She wanted to win, to banish the demons back beyond the Veil where they belonged. Sunshine used her magic like it was almost too heavy to lift, but it was there, and every spell packed a punch. She was a lot more powerful than she’d been in Kirkwall. And Hawke. Dear Hawke, her eyes were shining as she fought, as the days when she was Hawke of Kirkwall, respected and feared, came back to her. Varric liked to see that in her, liked to see the shadows receding from her face. For that, it was almost worth it to be back here in battle getting his boots ruined again.

Sighting a demon carefully, Varric took aim and let Bianca loose a bolt at it. The metal shaft buried itself deeply in the demon’s eye.

“Bianca, baby, we’ve still got it,” he told her, patting her stock. If they had to do this, they might as well do it right.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
As she followed the others through the fortress, Lilias kept as near her sister as she dared. She couldn’t rid herself of the idea that Bethany intended to sacrifice herself in some crazy idea that she owed her fellow Wardens something for having run from the ritual the first time. And Lilias was not about to allow that, not if she had so much as a split second to stop it.

They rounded a corner, the group of them, and found a cadre of Wardens facing them. Bethany’s face went white, and Alistair’s hardened in a way that said he was holding on to his emotions with both hands.

None of the Wardens were familiar to Lilias, but both Bethany and Alistair were staring at a dwarf with a bristling, heavily braided red beard who stepped out of the formation, brandishing an axe.

“Oghren,” Bethany whispered. “Don’t do this.”

“Back, are you? Where’ve you been?” Without waiting for an answer, he spat on the ground. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It’s a trick, Oghren,” Alistair said desperately. “Corypheus is playing with your mind.”

“Why should I trust you, nug-licker?”

“I’m your friend! I’ve always been your friend!”

“Both of ya should be fightin’ on our side. If you’re not …” He raised an arm. “Get the traitors, boys!”

“Lay down your weapons and surrender,” Thule called. His voice had deepened and there was a tone of authority in it that had some of the Wardens in the back automatically obeying the order.

“No, Oghren, please.” Bethany’s voice was a moan.

“Not gonna happen.” The dwarf looked almost sorrowful, but the axe lifted above his head. “Wardens, attack!”

He didn’t get far; a blast of fire caught him in the face, and he screamed, clutching at his burning beard. While he was distracted, Alistair came up to his side. Oghren flailed with the axe, nearly clipping Alistair in the shoulder, but he swayed backward just in time. Before Oghren could swing again, Alistair’s sword had buried itself in the dwarf’s throat. As he fell, Bethany and Alistair caught him, lowering him gently to the ground. Lilias saw her sister gently reach to close the dwarf’s eyes.

“ _Atrast nal tunsha_ , old friend,” Alistair whispered.

The other Wardens were down as well, the rest of the team having done their work. Everyone stood, catching their breath and taking drinks of water and tending to minor cuts, and let Bethany and Alistair mourn their lost friend.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
By the time they reached the center of the fortress, Alistair felt as though his head was going to explode any minute. He was angry; he was filled with anguish at having had to cut down his old friend; he was filled with the adrenaline of battle and really wanted to kill things; he felt utterly lost and empty and alone and wanted to find a corner and cry the kind of tears mature heads of state weren’t supposed to shed.

Oghren gone. How many was that, now? Leyden, of course. Wynne had succumbed to old age a few years after the Blight. Sten had gone back to Par Vollen; Maker only knew what had happened to him there. Alistair wanted to ask that Qunari fellow of the Inquisition’s when he got a chance. Leyden’s mabari, Spike, had died in the kennels in Denerim only a few months after the end of the Blight. Unable to imprint on someone else after the loss of his first two masters, and without any occupation that would have challenged him, war dog that he was, he had simply faded away. Leliana, of course, was back with the Inquisition; Alistair wondered what her reaction would be to what had happened here tonight. Zevran was somewhere in Antiva, no doubt continuing his vendetta against the Crows. Or, possibly, dead. It was hard to say. Lilias had run across him in Kirkwall not long before Alistair had arrived there—her description of him had been vintage Zevran. And of course, Morrigan was long gone and good riddance to her. 

And here he was, alone. Last of the companions, he said to himself, the romantic ring of the phrase almost consoling, even if it wasn’t strictly true.

He stopped short with the rest of the Inquisitor’s team, just shy of a large knot of Grey Wardens surrounding a crackling rift in the Veil. A thin woman was pacing the battlements; Alistair recognized her as Clarel, Warden Commander of Orlais. A glance around showed him Warden mages bound to demons, Warden warriors and archers enthralled, staring up at Clarel as though she held all the answers to the fears that held him captive. 

In the pile of bodies of those sacrificed, he recognized the familiar stubby black pigtails of Sigrun, and the grey-streaked brown hair of Caron, Amaranthine’s Warden Commander, and bile rose in his throat. He kept himself from being violently sick only with an effort.

Clarel’s voice rang above him: “Wardens, we are betrayed by the very world we are sworn to protect.”

He recognized Erimond, the Tevinter magister, stopping Clarel as she paced. “The Inquisition is here! We have no time to waste.”

Clarel faced off against the magister. “The sacrifice of good men and women may mean little in Tevinter, Magister, but to these Grey Wardens, it is a sacred duty. We will honor their bravery.”

“No one else will be sacrificed!” Thule bellowed. “This ends now!”

“These Wardens will do their duty, Inquisitor,” Erimond shouted back. “Do it, Clarel!”

“No!” It was Bethany’s voice, rising in a hysterical shriek. From the pack of Wardens, Alistair saw a dark head whip around at the sound and he recognized Nathaniel Howe.

“Please, Maker,” he muttered under his breath, “help us save him.” If they could only salvage one person from this utter mess …

Clarel was facing off against the Inquisitor now. “We make the sacrifices no one else will,” she declared. “Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them.”

“But they don’t have to die!” Alistair protested. “This is all in your heads—this isn’t the Calling, it is Corypheus.”

“Corypheus?” Clarel staggered back as though someone had struck her. “But he’s dead!”

“He is very much alive,” Thule said. “I fought him in Haven. There was no mistaking it.”

“He’s right,” Varric chimed in, rather surprisingly to Alistair, since the dwarf had been hanging back through the fighting. “I was in the Vimmarks when we killed him the first time, and I was there at Haven. It’s him, no mistake.”

Erimond hissed at Clarel, “These people will say anything to shake your confidence.”

Clearly confused, Clarel rubbed a hand over her face. “Begin the ritual,” she said at last.

Bethany screamed again. “NO!”

This time Nathaniel moved toward her. At the same time, both Solas and Merrill raised their staffs, ready to join battle.

“Please,” Lilias cried out, “please, stop this! I have seen more than my share of blood magic—it is never worth the cost!”

“Continue with the ritual, Clarel. This demon is truly worthy of your strength,” Erimond urged.

And then Thule’s voice split the air. “ATTACK!”

Before anyone could move, Erimond banged his staff against the ground in front of him, and an ear-splitting shriek split the air. Everyone held still, looking up at the massive red dragon that whirled and screamed in the sky above them. Thule’s face had drained of all color, leaving his tattoo standing out sharply against his skin.

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Erimond said, triumph heavy in his voice. “My master thought you might show up, and he sent me his pet to welcome you.”

Clarel watched the dragon wheel above her in shock. “Maker, no. What have I done?”

The dragon landed on a battlement and sat there, staring down at all of them. It was more menacing than an attack would have been. Alistair was reminded of the Archdemon, and Leyden. His heart was pounding.

And then a blast from Clarel’s staff struck Erimond in the back, sending him sprawling. The dragon’s great head turned toward her, and she took deliberate aim at it, striking it full in the face, and then turned to run.

“Clarel!” Erimond got to his feet and ran after her, and the dragon chased both of them.

The rest of the Wardens turned on the Inquisitor and his team. Nathaniel had come forward, and he and Bethany stood staring at each other. “Nate. Don’t. Please,” she whispered.

“Bethany.” Lilias spoke so quietly her sister didn’t appear to hear her. Alistair saw that Lilias was trembling, her eyes fixed on Bethany, and he took a step closer to Bethany, to try to prevent whatever it was that Lilias feared so. And then he remembered that he was the Senior Warden of Ferelden, and he took another step, more firmly this time, and put himself between Bethany and Nathaniel.

“It’s over, Nathaniel. It’s over. It’s not the Calling; you’re not dying. You will have to live with what has been done here, but the Wardens must not disgrace themselves further. They must take their place in the fighting, starting with these demons here.” They stood looking at one another for a long moment, and then Nathaniel moved, turning to the others. 

“Wardens. We owe it to our brothers and sisters to do what they would do for us. Free them!”

And together, they finished off the demons and the Wardens bound to them.   
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Inquisition forces had come up behind them, and Thule left the clean-up and the care of the surviving Wardens to them while he and his team chased after Clarel, Erimond, and the dragon.

In the far reaches of the fortress, they came on the tableau: Clarel, facing off against Erimond, who lay sprawled on the ground, and the dragon whirling in the sky above them, shrieking its displeasure.

Thule was in time to hear Clarel cry, “You have destroyed the Grey Wardens!”

Erimond was wheezing, but he gasped out, “You did that to yourself, you stupid bitch. A little power dangled before you, a little fear, and you couldn’t wait to get your hands bloody!”

Clarel gave a great bellow of anger, her staff lifting to finish Erimond off, but the dragon swooped in and caught her in its mouth. 

Behind Thule, Bethany gasped and started forward, but her sister caught her by the arm and held her back.

The dragon shook its head and then twisted it and flung Clarel across the stones. Shockingly, she seemed to still be alive, feebly trying to rise. Merrill moved toward her, but the dragon was there before the elven mage could reach the fallen Warden Commander.

“In war, victory,” Clarel gasped.

Bethany and Alistair said the rest with her, their voices giving her strength.

“In peace, vigilance. In death …” Her last word was drowned in the crackle of magic as she struck the dragon full in the mouth with a fist of fire.

The dragon was blasted back from her, falling so heavily onto the cobblestones that they crumbled beneath it, and then the bridge they were standing on was wobbling. 

“Run!” Thule shouted, but it was too late. The stones beneath his feet came apart, and they were all tumbling through space, dragon and stones and people.

From the corner of his eye, he was aware of the dragon getting its wings under it and flying off, and then there was nothing between him and the ground but flying bits of stone.

He did the only thing he could think of—he focused the Anchor on the ground below him and put all his effort into opening a rip in the Veil. He fell into the green slash that resulted, and then everything went black.


	13. Your Own Fears

Varric picked himself up and immediately hunted for Bianca, finding her not far from him. “Poor girl,” he crooned, polishing a smudge on her stock. Mercifully, she seemed otherwise undamaged. “Now, let’s see where we are, shall we?” He was talking to himself, and hearing himself, and he was holding Bianca, so he seemed to be alive … maybe. But they were in some kind of weird greyness, filled with rocks, and that’s—well, what _did_ he remember? Big dragon, lots of fighting, falling, green flashy thing, and now here they were. “You think Stones did something with that mark of his?” he asked Bianca, cradling her carefully. “Where is Stones, anyway? Or Hawke? Or … anybody?” At this point, he’d have been okay being stranded with Chuckles. His special brand of wit didn’t survive long without an audience, and Bianca, while appreciative, was hardly a witty conversationalist. Other than late at night, after too much Antivan brandy, but they didn’t talk about those occasions.

To his great relief, he heard a groaning sound not far from him. It was Alistair, sitting up and rubbing his head. “Where are we?”

Varric looked around. Same rocks. “Well, if this is the afterlife, I think the Chantry owes us an apology. This doesn’t look much like the Maker’s bosom to me.”

“No. No, it really doesn’t.” His Majesty got to his feet. “Anyone else here?”

“Just us, so far.”

“Ah. Over there.” Alistair motioned with his head off to Varric’s right, where he saw Chuckles and Daisy standing, staring off into the distance.

“Hey, you two have any insight into where we are?” Varric asked, joining them.

Daisy glanced at him with a distracted smile, but Chuckles continued to stare at the sky, which Varric now noticed was rather greenish, with a crackling Breach high above them.

“This is the Fade,” Chuckles whispered to himself. 

“You’re shitting me. We’re standing in the Fade. Physically, our bodies, in the Fade?” Varric frowned. “You do remember I’m a dwarf?”

“We don’t understand it, either, Varric,” Daisy told him, “but this is the Fade, and we’re standing in it.”

“Unbelievable,” Alistair murmured.

Chuckles, still not moving, said, “The Inquisitor must have opened a rift. We came through … and we survived.”

“But how many of us?” Alistair’s eyes were darting all around. Varric was sure he must be looking for Hawke.

“Hard to say.” A little smile lifted the corners of Chuckles’s mouth. “I never thought I would ever find myself here physically …” He hesitated, as though there was more he wanted to say, but stopped himself.

Stones came out from behind a rock, leading a fairly shaken-looking Sunshine. “This is incredible. And you say it’s the Fade? Last place I ever imagined to find myself.” He looked over the group, frowning. “Has anyone seen Cassandra?”

“Not yet,” Alistair told him. “Have either of you seen Hawke?”

They shook their heads.

Chuckles was still talking to himself. “What spirit commands this place? I have never seen anywhere like it?”

“They need a new decorator,” Varric agreed. 

“You’ve never dreamed in such a place?” Thule asked.

“No. Never. Usually the Fade has … places. People. Scraps of memories. It is shaped by the desire of the spirits to be close to the feelings of those on the other side of the Veil. This is …”

“Emotionless.” Sunshine’s voice matched the word.

“Yes.”

“Could it be because we’re here physically and not just dreaming?” Alistair asked.

“Perhaps. But more likely this is a choice,” Chuckles said.

Alistair looked down at Stones. “The stories say you walked out of the Fade at Haven. Was it like this, when you came through it?”

Stones had been searching for the Seeker, and Alistair’s question jarred him. “How should I know?” he snapped. “I’m not exactly an authority on the subject!”

“But what was it like last time?”

“I don’t even remember last time,” Stones said impatiently. “Cassandra!”

“I can’t imagine we’re safe here,” Daisy observed. 

Sunshine nodded. “They were going to call some huge demon through to bind to Clarel; it must still be here.”

“And there will be others. Spirits hungry to know what you know, to feel what you feel,” Chuckles agreed.

“Just what we need, hungry spirits,” Varric muttered.

Daisy suggested, “The rift the demons came through was nearby, in the great hall. What if it’s the same here? We would just have to get there.” She looked at Chuckles for confirmation.

“Yes. It should work that way.”

“Beats waiting around for demons—spirits,” Varric amended, catching the glare Chuckles aimed his way, “to find us.”

“We’re not going without Hawke,” Alistair said stubbornly.

“Or Cassandra,” Stones agreed.

“Then I suggest we find them, and quickly.” Chuckles led the way around a pile of rocks that reached up as far as the eye could reach.

“I don’t suppose you have any words of wisdom for this part of the Fade,” Stones said to Chuckles. The combination of the Fade and the missing Seeker clearly had him on edge.

“Why would I ever voluntarily have come to this part of the Fade?” Chuckles sounded edgy, too, and Varric wondered why. Wasn’t this supposed to be his home? He spent half his time dreaming here; he ought to be overjoyed to be here in person. He looked around them, squinting a little, studying the sky and the rocks. “The demon that controls this area is very powerful. Some variety of … fear, I would guess.” He looked around at them all. “I suggest you remain wary of its manipulations. And prepare for what is certain to be a fascinating experience.”

“Fascinating?” Varric asked Daisy in an undertone.

“Oh, yes, Varric. Look at it!” Her eyes were shining. “This is what I glimpse when I use my magic.”

He glanced around them at the rocks and the green sky. If this was what she saw, he didn’t envy her. Not at all.

“Imagine it,” Daisy said. “To walk in the Fade and survive …”

“So, we survive? Good to know.” Varric was glad at least one of them could see into the future.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Around the edge of a jutting rock, Thule was infinitely relieved to recognize Cassandra, and he could feel the tension ease out of Alistair when they both saw that Hawke was with her. They were both standing and staring at something—someone—in front of them.

When Thule came closer, fighting the urge to reach out and take Cassandra’s hand, to reassure himself that she was all right, he recognized the figure in front of him as Divine Justinia. Since he had only ever seen the Divine at a distance in the middle of the Conclave, he was at a loss to know how he was so certain it was her, but he was.

“By the Maker,” Alistair said softly.

“Divine Justinia. Most Holy.” Cassandra’s voice was strained; Thule could tell she was near tears at seeing her friend and mentor once again. Or was it? Solas had said the demon controlling this part of the Fade would be trying to manipulate them—was this part of that manipulation?

“Cassandra,” said the image, gently, and with great affection. 

“Is this really her?” he asked, looking up at Cassandra’s awestruck face.

She drew herself together with a visible effort. “I … I don’t know.” The admission was pulled from her unwillingly.

Thule glanced over his shoulder at Solas, who shook his head minutely.

Cassandra went on, wistfully, “It is said the souls of the dead pass through the Fade and sometimes linger, but … We know the spirits lie,” she said, her voice strengthening. “Be wary, Inquisitor.”

“The Divine is dead,” Bethany said dully. “This must be a spirit—or a demon.”

“Here you stand in the Fade yourselves,” the image of the Divine pointed out. “If my survival is impossible, so must yours be.”

“So it must,” Bethany muttered. Hawke glanced sharply over her shoulder at her sister, but Bethany was looking off into the distance, ignoring them all.

“It is no matter. You have little time to waste on proving either my existence or your own.” The image’s eyes met Thule’s. “You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor.”

“No,” he admitted unwillingly. “And the Divine wouldn’t have known that title.”

“Cassandra just addressed you by it,” the image reminded him gently. “But that is not of importance now, and it wastes time.”

Point to the image, whatever it was.

“What is the demon that controls this part of the Fade?” Solas asked.

“Nightmare. That which you forget upon waking, so deeply held that you cannot admit it even to yourself.”

All the humans and elves in the party looked distinctly uncomfortable, and yet again, Thule was glad to be a dwarf and avoid all that messy dreaming business.

“It feeds off memories of fear and darkness, growing fat on the terror.” She looked at Alistair, and then at Bethany. “The false Calling that wakes you at night, that terrified the Grey Wardens and broke their minds with their fear? Its work.”

“Well, then, I look forward to repaying the favor,” Alistair said grimly.

“You will have your chance, brave Warden.” She looked around at them all. “The Nightmare serves Corypheus willingly—his reign of darkness has brought much terror, and the Nightmare gluts itself upon it. If you kill it, you harm Corypheus greatly.”

“Two for one. I love a bargain,” Varric said.

“Can you help us get out of the Fade?” Thule asked.

“That is why I am here. When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part of you. Before you can escape the Fade, you must recover that part.”

“What part?”

“Your memory. You feel the hole in your mind, do you not?”

He wouldn’t have put it quite that way, but his lack of memory had been bothering him for a long while.

“As you fight the demons who serve the Nightmare in this realm, you will regain pieces of what you have lost. Only then, when you are whole, can you face Nightmare itself.”

“Well, by all means, let’s kill some demons,” Hawke said, her hand on the hilts of her daggers. “It’s been entirely too long.”

Solas glanced at her disapprovingly, but he didn’t argue about the necessity of killing Nightmare’s minions, for which Thule was grateful.

The image of the Divine disappeared, and they moved on toward the image of the Breach in the sky, hoping that was the direction of the rift in the great hall at Adamant.

The first demons seemed to come from nowhere. Thule had his blades out quickly, but with every slash and cut, memories sounded in his head, deafening him, confusing him, until he didn’t know where to turn or where to look. He felt someone’s hands on his shoulders, shoving him out of the way of the battle.

“Take him!” he heard Cassandra say, and then Merrill had hold of him, her slender hands gentle on his forehead as something seemed to burrow into his brain. He closed his eyes against a bright flash of light, and suddenly there he was again, in the Conclave, wandering the halls looking for the cache of lyrium he was supposed to pick up and deliver back to his Carta contacts. 

_He opened a door, and there was the Divine, held hanging in the air by some kind of energy. The Grey Wardens surrounded her, and she called out to them for help._

_In front of her stood a creature, twisted and darkened and looking like death, holding a green glowing orb near the Divine’s face._

_“What’s going on here?” Thule shouted._

_Startled, the creature jerked and the orb fell, rolling across the floor. Thule reached automatically to pick it up, and something burned into his hand, jolt after jolt of pain running up his arm._

And then the vision was gone, and he was back in the Fade, the others surrounding him with looks of concern and curiosity.

“So your mark did not come from Andraste,” Cassandra said after he explained, her disappointment clear in her voice. “It came from the orb Corypheus used in his ritual.”

He wanted to apologize to her, but he had never claimed to be connected to Andraste; he had never known what had happened. He hadn’t lied to her—she knew. But she had constructed something in her head, and now that was gone, taken from her, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Corypheus intended to open the Veil,” Merrill said. There was curiosity in her voice, wonder, as though she found it a fascinating puzzle to contemplate. “He wanted to step into the Fade, as we are now.”

“So when I picked up the orb, I gained the Anchor instead of Corypheus?”

“Yes.”

Thule sighed, getting to his feet. “That may be an interesting fact for the history books, but it tells me nothing—not about Corypheus, or a weakness for the demon, or even a way out of here.”

“The Divine said once you had your memories back, you would know a way out of here,” Varric said.

“Not exactly,” Solas corrected him. “The spirit only said that once his memories were restored, he could face Nightmare. Presumably, our exit from the Fade goes through the demon who controls this part of it.”

A cry sounded through the air, shaking the very rocks. Bethany looked up. “It knows we’re here,” she said in the same monotone she’d been using since they got here. 

“Good,” Hawke said. “Because we’re its worst nightmare.” She looked at her sister, clearly hoping to see a response to her bravado, but there was nothing.

“Is no one going to mention the Grey Wardens?” Cassandra asked, her voice that telltale firm, reasonable tone that meant she was at her most dangerous.

“What about them?” Alistair asked, eyeing her warily.

“They were the ones holding the Divine. What have you to say about that, Your Majesty?”

“I don’t know.” There was pain in his voice, and helplessness, and sorrow.

“Their actions led to her death.”

“So it seems. He must have taken their minds.”

Cassandra’s level gaze said what she thought of someone who would let Corypheus take their mind.

“We can argue after we get out of here,” Varric said impatiently to both of them.

They looked at one another, and then away.

As they walked on, Cassandra fell back with Solas. Thule glanced back, wanting to walk with them, but she wouldn’t look at him, and so he kept just ahead. 

“Could that truly have been the Most Holy?” she asked Solas, an eagerness in her voice that Thule had rarely heard.

He shrugged. “We have survived in the Fade. Perhaps she did as well.” But he didn’t sound as though he believed his own words.

“If it is a spirit,” Merrill offered, “it may have identified so strongly with Justinia that it believes it is her. Can we deny it that?”

Cassandra looked as though she could, but in the face of Merrill’s earnestness, she didn’t say as much.

“She seems interested in helping us, at least,” Hawke said. “Can’t we just leave it at that?”

“Personally, I just want to get to this Nightmare and kill it so we can get out of here,” Thule said grimly. 

“Preying on fear? That’s low, even for a demon.” It seemed to be getting to Varric; he clutched Bianca tightly to his chest, looking around him apprehensively.

“Fear is a very old, very strong feeling,” Solas said. “Older than love, compassion, pride—every emotion save perhaps desire.”

Thule wondered if the elf’s eyes had flickered to Merrill there, or if he had just imagined it. This was a terrible place to be a romantic, but it seemed he couldn’t help it, not entirely. 

“After what this demon did to the Wardens, all I want is to find a way to take it down.” Alistair’s words were edged with steel, and Thule could truly see the warrior in the king … and the Warden.

Then, through the air resounded a voice. “Ah, I see some foolish little boy comes to steal the fear I kindly lifted from his shoulders.”

Thule looked around, feeling in a sudden rush all the inadequacy he had spent so much of his life fighting through. He could be the strongest dwarf he knew, the broadest of shoulder, the quickest of strike, the firmest when it came to decision-making, but that would never make him as tall as a human man; it would never make humans look on him as a true equal. They would always look down on him and see his size as a measure of his intelligence, of his worth. He swallowed against that self-doubt—he was the Inquisitor, one of the most powerful men in Thedas, he reminded himself. His size had nothing to do with it.

“You should have thanked me and left your fear where it lay, forgotten,” the Nightmare continued. “Tell yourself what you like—the only one who grows stronger from your fears is me.” It chuckled. “Perhaps I should be afraid, facing the most powerful members of the Inquisition. But I am not.” After a pause, it went on. “Once again, Hawke is in danger because of you, Varric. The red lyrium has spread because of you. Everything you touch kills everything you love … and it always will.”

Varric bit his lip and pretended to be polishing Bianca, but Thule could see a suspicious brightness in his eyes as if he was holding back tears.

“Merrill … failure as a First, failure as the savior of your people, murderer of your clan. Your legacy to your people is one of death and despair.”

“No,” she moaned, but it was clear the demon had her number. Solas turned to her, questions in his eyes, but she looked away from him, hanging her head.

“Your Inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra. You put your faith in him, and everything about him was a lie.”

Thule looked at her, frantic to tell her that, no, he had never lied to her, but she avoided his gaze.

Nightmare went on, “Yet more proof that there is no Maker, that all your faith has been for naught.”

Her hand flexed on the hilt of her sword, then relaxed. No, don’t believe it! Thule wanted to shout, but she was closed to him now; she would never listen to him.

“Die in the Void, demon,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

“Bethany, Bethany, Bethany. Are you never to stand on your own two feet? Dragged through life by the choices of others, always told who to be and what to want. Your whole life has been fashioned for you by someone else, and you were too weak to stop it. You always will be.”

Bethany didn’t respond; she didn’t even lift her head.

“Dirth ma, harellan,” the Nightmare said. Both Solas’s heads and Merrill’s snapped up, his eyes on the sky and hers on him. “Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din.”

“Banal nadas,” Solas snapped back.

Nightmare chuckled again. “Did you think anything you ever did mattered, Hawke? Used by Anders, used by Alistair, used by your parents, by Meredith, by Dumar, even by Varric to write his little story … nothing you wanted ever mattered, did it?”

Hawke’s face crumpled into tears. Bethany looked up at the sky, frowning thoughtfully, and then she got up and crossed to her sister, putting her arm around Hawke’s shoulders, holding her fiercely.

“And Alistair, the little king. Your father put you away, Duncan left you behind, Leyden chose death over a life with you, and now you’ve failed at being both a Warden and a king, a man and a lover. Makes you wonder why you were ever born, doesn’t it?”

The demon was laughing out loud now, triumphant laughter that shook everything around them, as they frozen. “Defeat me? You can’t even defeat your own fears.”


	14. For Once, My Choice

They all huddled there for a long time, lost in their own fears. Nightmare’s laughter sounded around them, the din pounding in Lilias’s head.

But slowly, something else found their way through the laughter and the mocking words, the words that were so very true: Bethany’s voice, soft and low, singing a song their mother used to sing to them when they were small. Slowly, Lilias shifted so that she held her sister in her arms, and they rocked together, Lilias’s voice joining Bethany’s in the song. 

“I didn’t know,” Bethany whispered. “Until it said that—I always thought … You were the strong one, I thought it was all your choice, that you had everything you wanted, everything your own way.”

Lilias gave a gulping sob of a laugh. “None of it was my own way. I wanted … I don’t even know what I wanted, it was so long ago that I even thought I had a choice.”

“I’ve been resenting you for so long. I’m sorry.” Bethany held her tighter. “No longer, I promise. We’re going to get y—we’re going to get out of here. All of us.” She stood up, gripping Lilias’s hands and pulling her up, too.

As if from nowhere, a swarm of deepstalkers came, their long necks sticking out, their eyes red, spraying their acidic little droplets as they hissed.

“Maker’s blood!” Lilias cried, pulling her daggers.

The sound of the blades, or the sound of her voice, or both, had Alistair, Thule, and Cassandra on their feet, trained fighters all. 

Varric rose, too, a bit more slowly. “I’m with you, Hawke.” He turned his head. “Daisy?”

“I …” Her eyes were fixed on Solas, wide and curious and a little fearful. “I … yes, of course, Varric.”

As the rest of them joined battle, Solas seemed to snap out of his trance as well, his staff moving smoothly.

“What were those?” Alistair asked when all the deepstalkers lay dead around them. Lilias frowned at him—had he never seen deepstalkers before? He must have.

“Those were little fears,” Solas said, “tiny manifestations spawned from the Nightmare itself.”

“Did they have to be spiders?” Varric groused, brushing at his coat.

“Spiders?” Cassandra asked in surprise. She looked down at the deepstalkers with revulsion. “I see maggots, crawling in filth.”

“Of course. They take the form of our greatest fear. Whatever you fear, that’s what you’ll see,” Thule said. They all looked around at each other, each wondering what everyone else had seen but no one wanting to ask.

Instead, they started forward again, toward the replica of the Breach in the sky. Their loss of themselves to the fears the Nightmare had played on wasn’t discussed; nothing was discussed. They walked silently, trudging through the endless rock formations, all of which looked the same. Only the Breach was different, hanging there above them and stubbornly refusing to come any closer.

More demons surrounded them, and as before, the Inquisitor screamed and clutched his head and lay in Merrill’s lap and muttered to himself.

When he came to, he described running from the Nightmare’s little minions, which he called spiders. He told how the Divine had been ahead of him, how she had held the Breach open for him, how the spiders had grabbed the edge of her robe and dragged her back, how she had told him to go. And how he had gone.

Even Lilias, not a terribly devout Andrastean, was torn between horror that he would have left the Divine to die and admiration for the Divine’s selflessness.

The image of the Divine appeared near them, walking serenely in their direction. The Inquisitor got up from the floor and approached her. “It was you,” he said. “They thought it was Andraste sending me from the Fade, but it was you. Thank you.”

“And then she died,” Cassandra said, turning away from the spirit.

“Yes. I am sorry if I disappoint you.” Her eyes were on Cassandra, the look gentle and affectionate and sorrowful. And then the image of the Divine was gone and a creature of light stood before them in her place.

“A spirit watching her from the Fade, inspired by her faith?” Solas asked.

“If that is the story you wish, it is not a bad one.”

Cassandra was fighting back tears, trying to get herself under control.

“Now that I have my memories back, are we ready to face the demon?” the Inquisitor asked the spirit. “Will you help us?”

The glowing head nodded.

“Then let’s get the Void out of here,” Varric said, leading the way.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Nightmare’s voice surrounded them again. “You think you can defeat me? I am the veiled hand of Corypheus himself! The demon army you fear? I command it. They are bound all through me!”

“Bound all through you?” Alistair drew his sword. “So we banish you, we banish the demons.”

“I’m all for that,” Varric said fervently.

Nightmare growled angrily, and around him Alistair could feel everyone taking courage in having rocked it back on its heels, as it were.

And then it was before them, an ugly Broodmother of a creature, giant and menacing. Around him, the others made noises that revealed they saw the monsters of their own nightmares lurking before them.

Above their heads, the spirit called out to the Inquisitor, “If you would, please tell Leliana: I am sorry, I failed you, too.” And then it flew at the demon, destroying itself in a shower of bright sparks that left a pitted crater in the stomach of the Broodmother. It screamed its anger, and next to Alistair, Bethany screamed back, drawing her staff and attacking it viciously.

The others joined battle. Alistair found his spirits rising at the familiarity of his shield on his arm and his sword in his hand, the smooth, practiced movements that were such a part of him.

The fight was long and wearying, and the Nightmare tried everything in its bag of tricks, but they knew that the safety of all depended on everyone working together—and holding themselves together. And every time one faltered, the others converged to support them until they were back on their feet.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, they wore the demon down, until at last, with a final impotent scream of rage, it collapsed.

Behind the demon’s fallen form, the rift glowed a pulsing, vivid green. Varric pushed his way through with difficulty, the rift sucking around the edges of him until he was all the way through. Merrill followed. Each of them seemed to take forever to Alistair, standing there and waiting. Solas went next, shoving at the edges of the rift, although that didn’t seem to speed his progress any.

Cassandra glanced up, terror in her face, and Alistair followed her glance. A massive spider hovered above them, dropping from nowhere on a thick, oozing thread. There wouldn’t be time for all of them to get through before it fell, and it would close off the rift.

“Go!” the Inquisitor shouted, and he shoved at Cassandra. A soldier through and through, she knew an order when she heard one, and she went.

“I’m staying. I’ll hold it off until you all get through,” Bethany announced calmly while Cassandra fought her way through.

“No. You aren’t. I’m not losing you, Bethany. I … I’m not!” Lilias said. "I'll stay. You go; live your life."

Alistair felt fear squeeze his heart, cold and sharp, worse than anything the Nightmare could have done. He had lost Leyden; could he lose Lilias, too, and in such a similar way? Not and live with himself. Over her head, he saw caught Bethany’s eye, and she gave a very small nod.

He looked at Thule. “Go on.”

Thule hesitated only a moment; but they all knew he was the one who was needed in the real world, to close the rifts and stop Corypheus, so he went.

Bethany reached out, putting her hands on either side of her sister’s face. “I love you,” she said. Alistair thought he saw a tear roll down her face, and then he realized it was a droplet of whatever was oozing down the spider’s rope. It was much closer now; they were almost out of time. Bethany brushed the droplet away, and then she spoke a word he didn’t understand and Lilias fell back in his arms, unconscious.

“Do you love her?” Bethany asked him.

“I …” In that moment, he knew that he did. Maybe not the same as he had loved Leyden, maybe not enough, but … he did love her. Had loved her all these years.

“Then … take care of her. And get her the Void out of here. Try—try to make her understand that … that I choose this. For once, my choice.”

Alistair nodded. He hesitated, wanting to say something, to honor Bethany’s sacrifice, but she was calm and ready, and there was no time. He hoisted Lilias over his shoulder and pushed his way into the rift. It was sticky and clammy and gluey, and once he thought he might lose his hold on her entirely, but he made it through.

Thule looked past him for Bethany, but Alistair shook his head. “Close it now.”

Raising his hand, the Inquisitor closed the rift, and Bethany was lost to them.


	15. After the Nightmare

Alistair stood, holding Lilias in his arms. He hoped she would sleep for a long time, so that they would be far from here when she was forced to an awareness of what the trip through the Fade had cost.

“Bethany?” Nathaniel Howe asked softly. At Alistair’s shake of the head, the dark-haired Warden put his head in his hands.

“It was her choice,” Alistair said. “She wanted to be clear about that—she chose to stay behind, to save us all from what was waiting to come through behind us.”

“If I had been stronger, it might never have come to this.”

“We can all say the same.”

“This is her sister?”

Alistair shifted Lilias in his arms. She was so thin, she weighed hardly anything. “Yes. She … she was prepared to stay behind, and Bethany refused to allow it.”

“I am sorry about Bethany,” Cassandra put in, “but this does not resolve the question of what to do with the Grey Wardens.”

Nathaniel nodded. “We are ready for whatever might come. We will accept our fate.”

Alistair felt a momentary irritation. Hadn’t the Wardens had enough of letting someone else tell them what to do? First the Blight, when Loghain and Celene had kept them out of Ferelden, and then Corypheus, and now the Inquisition? The Wardens needed to learn to stand on their own two feet.

“The dragon has gone. That at least is a good sign,” Solas offered.

“Is it truly an Archdemon?” Thule asked, his eyes on Alistair.

“I don’t think so. It doesn’t look like the one we fought in Denerim, and it doesn’t appear to command an army of the horde. Instead, it’s commanded by Corypheus. If, as is believed, Archdemons are corrupted old gods, awakened by darkspawn tunneling, I can’t imagine a real Archdemon being Corypheus’s lapdog.”

Cassandra frowned at him thoughtfully. “He is the oldest of the darkspawn.”

Alistair shrugged. “I could be wrong.” He didn’t want to think of the Archdemon now, anyway, about Leyden facing it down, her hair wild around her shoulders.

“I will take the surviving Wardens into custody, Inquisitor, if those are your wishes.” That they were Cassandra’s wishes was easy to tell from her tone and the expression on her face. 

Alistair wondered what Thule would do. He was putty in Cassandra’s hands in most things … but not all.

“You have our unconditional surrender,” Nathaniel said hoarsely. “But … we have no one left of any significant rank to speak for us all.”

“You seem to be doing a fine job,” Thule told him. “Warden …?”

“Howe, Your Worship. Nathaniel Howe.”

“From Amaranthine?”

“Yes. I …” There were tears standing in Nathaniel’s eyes. “I appear to be the only one left.”

“I am sorry for your losses, and for the torment that led to them.” Thule looked at Nathaniel thoughtfully. “I fail to see how your Order can do any good locked away.” He sighed. “I task the Wardens with becoming part of the Inquisition, seeing that the ill that began with their imprisonment of Corypheus is ended once and for all.”

“Thank you, Your Worship,” Nathaniel breathed.

“After all that, you give them yet another chance?” Cassandra objected.

“The Grey Wardens have stood strong against the darkspawn for ages, Cassandra. I will not throw them away because their own blood was turned against them. We do what we can with what we have, and the Grey Wardens can be of great use.”

Alistair was startled, and grateful, and he wished fiercely that he was among the Wardens today, that he could be part of whatever they were going to do. He should never have agreed to leave them, he thought. He looked at Nathaniel. “Someone should get word to Weisshaupt.”

Nathaniel looked like a man awaking from a nightmare. “Yes. Yes, they should. I will send someone.”

“In the meantime, we need to be getting back to Skyhold.” Thule led the way back through the keep.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Lilias stirred, her head against a very hard shoulder. She fidgeted, feeling something move underneath her. Her body was twisted oddly, as well. Was she still in the Fade?

Then she opened her eyes, and found herself on a horse, clasped in Alistair’s arms. Without thinking, she pushed at him, and only his quick reflexes and her own kept her from falling off the horse and being trampled by the army behind it.

Alistair grasped her firmly and helped her reposition herself. His armor dug into her in uncomfortable places, but she could smell something familiarly Alistair under the sweat and blood and metal and horse, and between that and the warmth of his body, she was in danger of feeling entirely too at home here in his arms.

“What happened?”

“We got out of the Fade.”

“So I gather. But … that spidery thing?”

Alistair looked down at her, something almost scared in his face, and she knew.

“No. No.” This time, she did push herself off him and got down from the horse. “What did you do?”

He stopped the horse and got down as well. “I didn’t do anything. It was Bethany’s choice.”

“What was Bethany’s choice?”

“She … stayed behind. To cover our escape. She told me to tell you—she wanted you to know that she chose that fate, with her eyes open. She wanted it.”

“To die in the Fade? Alone? My baby sister?” Lilias could hear her own voice rising to a piercing screech, but she was powerless to stop it. “How could you?”

“I couldn’t let you die!” he thundered back at her. “Not when there was any other option.”

“It wasn’t your decision.”

“No, it was hers! For once, can you try to believe that someone else knew what they wanted out of their own life?” He took a step toward her, and Lilias backed away. 

“Don’t come near me.” She turned her head, seeing two ponies approaching in the midst of the rest of the mass of the army. Varric rode one, the Inquisitor the other. She couldn’t bear to meet Varric’s eyes, to see in them … anything. Sympathy, anger, grief—any of it would be too much, coming from him. Instead she grasped the reins of the Inquisitor’s pony, pulling him to a stop. “We’ve got to go back. We can’t leave her there.”

He shook his head. “It’s too late. She’s gone by now.”

“You don’t know that! If we go back, you can open a rift and we can go through and get her out. You can do that, can’t you? You opened the rift in the first place!”

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t? Is that what this Inquisition is, you don’t care who you roll over as long as you get your way?” She could barely speak through her tears, and she didn’t even believe what she was saying, but she couldn’t help it. Bethany! The toddler in pigtails, the little girl sobbing because she’d burnt a hole in her best dress, the gangling teenager so shy and scared she hid behind Lilias whenever they went anywhere—the beautiful woman she could, should, have been. 

“Hawke, I really am sorry. Please believe me—if there was something I could have done, something I could do now, I would. But there’s nothing.” There was pain in the Inquisitor’s voice, and she wondered who he had lost that he understood hers so thoroughly.

Behind him, she caught sight of a familiar delicate tattooed face, and she let go of the Inquisitor’s reins and dashed back to pull Merrill’s horse to a stop. Next to her, Solas reined his in as well, looking down on her with compassion.

“Merrill, there’s something you can do, isn’t there? Can’t you—go for a walk in the Fade and find her? Make some path for her through the Fade that she can get out, that she can be safe? Please, Merrill, it’s Bethany. Please!”

“Hawke—“ Merrill’s voice caught in her throat. “I’m so sorry, _lethallan_. So very sorry.”

“You. Solas. You can do something, can’t you?” Above her head, Lilias saw Merrill’s gaze move to Solas’s face, Merrill’s eyes narrowing thoughtfully, but Solas said no.

“The likelihood is that your sister was gone moments after the rift was closed,” he said. “There were many demons in that corner of the Fade.”

“She was a strong mage, a powerful mage. She could have killed them all. She could be alive in there. Couldn’t she?” Lilias looked wildly between them, unable to give up. Bethany was all she had left, the only person in the world she had to protect, and care for. If Bethany was gone, then … she was truly all alone. Bethany couldn’t be gone.

“I am sorry,” Merrill whispered again, and then Lilias knew nothing more.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Behind them, Cullen saw Lilias’s knees buckle, and he sped up, wanting to catch her before she fell, but Alistair was there, lifting her in his arms and carrying her on ahead to his horse.  
While Cullen would have liked to believe he could have carried her, the truth was that he could barely sit his horse. The pain radiated from his neck down his spine, all the way to his toes, and back up again, occasionally reaching an intensity that was almost blinding.

He needed the lyrium. All he could think of, the only thing that was keeping him on this horse, his teeth clenched firmly against the pain, was the cool blue light of that vial awaiting him back in his office. He had been a fool to think he could rid himself of his addiction to it, a fool to think he could lead this Inquisition’s army. Oh, they had achieved a victory at Adamant, but that was once, a chance in a thousand. What they needed was a leader with his wits about him, at the peak of his strength, not a broken down ex-Templar lyrium fiend who couldn’t think straight without it.

“Commander?”

Cullen turned toward the voice, squinting a little to try to make out the features. The Iron Bull’s lieutenant? “Aclassi?” he asked, his voice a croak.

“Krem, please, Commander.”

Clearing his throat, Cullen said, “Of course,” striving for a normal tone, something that didn’t scream that he was in terrible pain and badly needed lyrium. “You—you and your people fought well.”

“So did you.” Krem grinned. “The way you scaled that wall, like you do it every day.” His eyes were on Cullen’s face, frowning a little. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, perfectly fine.” He wasn’t; he could feel himself perspiring and the pain was back.

“If you say so.” Krem dropped back again. He was riding with Sera, and the two of them resumed a lively conversation that made Cullen’s head hurt anew.

When they were back at Skyhold, he would talk to Cassandra, he told himself. She would see him in this condition, she would understand, she would agree that the Inquisition needed a new commander. And then … then he would take the lyrium, the cool blue liquid in his veins spreading its soothing balm through him, taking the pain away.

Yes. That’s what he would do. The horse stumbled a little, jarring him, and Cullen held back a curse with difficulty. It was going to be a long way back to Skyhold.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The ravens had told her everything. Leliana had wept and prayed for Bethany, although she had not been surprised. Bethany had been certain of her fate, and ready for it, and from all accounts, had finally taken charge of her own life, the way she had wanted to. Leliana was proud of her.

As for the reports that the party who had gone into the Fade had encountered the Divine … Leliana wasn’t certain if she wanted to know that they had truly touched the spirit of Dorothea, or if she was angry that some Fade spirit had coopted the form of her beloved Divine for its own purposes.

She looked up from a field report to see Cassandra standing awkwardly in front of her desk.

“You do not look the worse for wear after your trip into the Fade, my friend.”

“I … do not feel the same. In many ways.”

Leliana stood up. “You dealt Corypheus a significant blow, you and your Inquisitor.”

Cassandra cut a sharp look from those grey eyes at her. “You heard, I suppose, that the woman in the Fade with him was not Andraste, but Divine Justinia? I …” She looked down at her hands. 

“Is there truly so much difference? Would Andraste's presence have made his contributions to the world, his work as Inquisitor, more meaningful, somehow?”

“I … do not know.” Cassandra waved an impatient hand, not wanting to talk about it further. 

“There is not much time for contemplation. We may have taken an army from Corypheus, but that will matter little if we lose Orlais.”

“Yes, the threat against the Empress. What do we know?”

“I believe she will be in most danger at a ball in Halamshiral, later in the winter.”

“A ball?” Cassandra groaned. “I hate balls.”

Leliana smiled. “I love them. There is nowhere else where you can learn so much in so little time.”

“I am not going to wear a dress.”

Letting her smile broaden just a bit, Leliana said, “Maybe the Inquisitor won’t take you. Just think, all those beautifully dressed Orlesian ladies, fawning over him, stuffing their tokens in his pockets …”

“You are impossible.”

Leliana smothered a chuckle. Cassandra turned to go. As her hand touched the top rail of the stairs, Leliana couldn’t hold the question back any further. “What was she like?”

“Justinia?”

“Yes. Her soul, or the spirit that took her form. What … what did she say?”

Cassandra looked off into space, measuring her words. “She seemed … calm. Serene. And she guided us the whole way through before sacrificing herself against the nightmare demon.”

“She would.”

“Yes. She also asked us to tell you something. She said, ‘Tell Leliana I’m sorry. I failed her, too.’”

The words were like a dagger to the heart, thin and sharp and striking at the deepest, most vulnerable part. Dorothea was the only person Leliana could think of who had never failed her. Never once. 

Cassandra’s eyes were soft, sympathetic. “I will leave you now.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

Long after Cassandra was gone, Leliana leaned on the railing, her eyes and her thoughts far, far from the Inquisition, thinking of those who had gone into the Fade before her.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule’s heart pounded as he climbed the stairs to Cassandra’s rooms over the blacksmith shop. Since the Fade, since the Divine’s revelations that he wasn’t touched by Andraste and his decision about the Grey Wardens, she wouldn’t even look at him. He didn’t know how much he had counted on being able to glance at her and get her opinion from one eloquent look from her grey eyes until he didn’t have it any longer.

He hadn’t deceived her, he told himself. She didn’t have any right to be angry with him. But she did, too, because even though he hadn’t known what the truth was, he had let her believe Andraste had been with him in the Fade, he had come to half-believe it himself. He should have kept a clearer head, a stronger sense of the impossibility of what everyone believed, and by letting himself be drawn in, he had let her down.

He knocked on her door, finding her sitting at her desk, a quill moving laboriously over a piece of parchment. “Trying to challenge Varric for the title of Skyhold’s most famous author?” he teased.

The silence hung heavy in the air. She was clearly not ready to be teased.

“What are you writing?” he asked in a more serious tone.

She gave a harsh sigh, throwing the quill down and spattering ink across her parchment. “I am trying to write the account of our time in the Fade, but writing hardly comes easily to me, as I’m sure you can imagine. But historians will want to know what happened to us, and it should be written down before we forget, before time makes us … think things were different.”

“Just … be careful what you write.”

Cassandra glared at him. “I will write the truth.” Then, in a more measured tone, “Do not be concerned. I may be a poor writer, but I am aware of the weight my words will carry. I will write nothing to the Inquisition’s discredit.” She got up from the desk, looking out the window. “I still don’t know what to say about the spirit of the Divine. Was it truly Justinia? I saw her there, heard her voice, yet I cannot claim with certainty that it was really her. I … want to think so, but … ” She frowned. “The Chantry teaches us that the souls of the dead pass through the Fade, so it could have been her, but even so …”

“Do you really think there’s a possibility?”

“A remnant of her hopes and memories, her lingering will to do good … Perhaps. I cannot say for sure. The spirit helped us, as Justinia herself helped you.”

“About that—“

“I feel like such a fool, believing that you, a dwarf, could have been touched by Andraste. And you—you allowed me to think so! You encouraged me to believe it.” Her eyes were dark as slate, her face all hard lines.

“I know.” Thule nodded. “I let you believe it because—because I wanted you to see me as special. Because I wanted to see myself as special. I’m as Andrastean as you are, despite my dwarven blood, and I wanted to think that I had been chosen. Me, a petty Carta thief.” He laughed bitterly. “I should have known better.” He looked up at her. “I … failed you. I let you down. I encouraged you to think I was something I’m not. I’m sorry.”

As Cassandra looked down at him, the hard lines of her face softened, her eyes losing that flintiness and truly seeing him, searching his face. “You mean that.”

“I do. I never meant to lie to you, not really, any more than I meant to lie to myself. I didn’t remember what had happened, and when everyone said it was Andraste I didn’t know any better; I was as willing to believe that as anything.”

“I understand.” Her voice was softer now.

“You do?”

“Yes. I thought … I was thinking only of myself, of my own disappointment, but … whether it was Justinia or Andraste who saved you doesn’t change what you have accomplished, what you have made of yourself. I … As you know, I admire you.”

“You do?” he asked again, feeling utterly idiotic, but unable to find any other words.

Cassandra nodded. “I do.” She swallowed visibly. “When I realized that we were physically in the Fade, I was—terrified almost beyond reason.”

“You didn’t show it.”

“I couldn’t. But all I could think was that the last time such a thing happened, we created darkspawn. We created Corypheus. But you—you weren’t afraid at all.”

“I was with you,” he said simply.

They looked at one another for a long moment before Cassandra turned back to her parchment. “The world needs to know the truth this time. No more legends lost to the ages. If I can only find the words …”

“You could practice by writing something else.”

“What do you suggest?”

Thule tried a grin, and when she didn’t glare at him, he said playfully, but with meaning, “Love poetry?”

This time she did glare, but there was a lift at the corners of her mouth that warmed him straight to the heart, and points south. Cassandra shook her head. “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

“You can do anything if you want to.”

She tsked in the back of her throat at the compliment. “Poetry takes finesse. It takes … grace.”

“You think you don’t have those things?”

Cassandra shook her head. Her face was set and emotionless, but he glimpsed something in her grey eyes and wondered how hard she had fought as a young girl to be comfortable seeing herself as someone without grace.

“I think you have grace.”

She watched him warily, as if waiting for a punchline. Thule leaned across the table, his face close to hers.

“I think you are as graceful as a rose. Slender, elegant, beautiful … but with thorns.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help a small, pleased smile that tinted her cheeks a delicate pink. “Do not be ridiculous.”

“I’ll try.” He grinned at her again, and took his leave.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Varric lay back in the bed, luxuriating in the softness of the sheets beneath him, the mattress, so firm in some places, so soft in others. Lying here eased pains he hadn’t even known he had.

The faint crackle of the banked fire, the smell of the burning applewood, the lavender scent of the sheets, the smoothness of the sheets on his body … He stretched his limbs out as far as they could go, letting his head settle comfortably in the pillow, feeling himself begin to drift off into sleep.

The only thing that could make this better, he thought, was Bianca. He imagined her strong, scarred fingers weaving their way through his chest hair and down, lower and lower, her soft lips at his ear, whispering to him all the things she intended to do to him. Involuntarily, his hips arched into the phantom touch, the cool soft sheets against the luxurious soft cotton of his smallclothes feeling almost as erotic as the real thing. Her lips on his nipple, her hand curling around him just so, one of her legs thrown over his ...

His eyes opened to assure himself that she really wasn’t here, much as he wished she was, and he caught sight of Bianca the crossbow on her elaborate stand near the bed. “Sorry, old girl,” he said, as always feeling vaguely guilty when he couldn’t quite let the complicated contraption stand in for the equally complicated person. “It’s been a long time,” he muttered to the empty room, the silent crossbow, the absent lover.

Suddenly the bed seemed less comfortable, almost too warm, even a bit confining. Groaning, Varric threw back the covers and got up, taking his dressing gown from the back of the chair next to his bed and swinging it on, sliding his feet into his comfortable slippers. At his worktable in the corner of the room he lit a candle, and sat down, sifting through the papers there until he found the one he wanted. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well see what kind of trouble Donnen Brennokovic wanted to get into.


	16. Swords & Shields

_The mage stopped in front of him, her blue eyes staring boldly into his. Cullen took comfort that she couldn’t see his face through his helmet, because he was certain he was blushing scarlet at being so close to her. He ought to bark at her, to tell her to move along, but she was beautiful, and fearless, her eyes laughing at him, daring him to censure her._

_“I know which one you are, you know,” she whispered to him. “You’re Cullen, aren’t you?”_

_He didn’t dare so much as nod. Tessier would be watching him, and would report anything he did wrong. Even letting her stand here could get him in trouble._

_“I’ve seen you without your helmet.” She leaned toward him. “You’re new. I can tell. I can always tell the new ones. I’m Leyden.”_

_Cullen knew that, naturally. He knew all the apprentices; it was his job. But this one—his eyes were drawn to her. Had been from the first. Had she really noticed him, too? His heart pounded. It was absolutely forbidden, what he was thinking, from talking to her to tasting her lips to everything beyond, but he couldn’t help himself._

_“I’ll see you around, Cullen.” Leyden began to move away, but something fluttered to the floor at her feet. A piece of vellum from her spellbook. With the automatic courtesy his mother had drummed into him, Cullen bent to pick it up for her. Leyden knelt as well. Her fingers touched the metal of his gauntlet as they both reached for the piece of vellum, and hastily she whispered, “I’ll be in the library every night this week at quarter past the candle snuffing.”_

_And then she was gone, moving down the hallway away from him, her hips swaying, one last glance over her shoulder taunting him, leaving Cullen in an agony of desire. He would meet her in the library, and damn the consequences._

Cullen woke with a head burning like fire and a mouth as dry as the desert. It was a struggle just to get out of bed and get properly dressed; climbing down the ladder from his loft to his office seemed to take forever.

By the time he finally had both feet flat on the floor, he had decided. He had been right, coming home from Adamant; he was no longer valuable to the Inquisition as he was. Today he would find Cassandra and tell her as much. No doubt she would be relieved to have the burden of making that decision off her shoulders. He would apologize to the Inquisitor, but the Inquisitor would understand.

Would he? He didn’t have the look of a man who gave up easily. Perhaps he would think that Cullen should have fought harder.

No. This was the right decision. If he continued on this course, sooner or later he would fail the Inquisition and people would get hurt. The way they had at Haven. 

Cullen moved swiftly now, sure of his decision. He called Cassandra downstairs, since the blacksmiths hadn’t started yet this morning. It was warm in the shop, with the banked fires ready to be stoked for the day’s work.

“Cullen, are you—“ Cassandra stopped in front of him. “No. You are not well.”

He shook his head. Or possibly his whole body was shaking; Cullen wasn’t certain. “It’s time, Cassandra.”

“I find that hard to believe. After all these months?”

“Look!” He held his hand out, showing her how his fingers trembled. “You must see that I can’t go on like this.”

“Have you seen the surgeon, asked for help with the symptoms? Have you spoken with Dagna? I cannot imagine that she won’t have some kind of remedy to ease the discomfort.”

Cullen stared at her, aghast. Ask for help with this shameful withdrawal?

Cassandra frowned at him. “No. Of course you haven’t. You are preferring to give up rather than let anyone see you as human. And vulnerable.”

Look who was talking, Cullen thought. As far as he could tell, Cassandra had never been vulnerable a day in her life. “It is not giving up! It is knowing when I am a danger to the Inquisition, which is what you were supposed to be watching for!”

“I am watching, and you are not a danger. Except possibly to yourself.”

“Go to the Inquisitor and tell him I must be replaced.”

“No.”

“Cassandra!”

“You asked for my opinion, and I’ve given it.” She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him. “Why would you expect me to change it merely because you shout at me?”

“I expected you to keep your word,” Cullen growled. The pain spiked again, his hand going to his face to cover his eyes from the light of the forge. “It’s relentless; I can’t—“ He groaned with the pain this time.

“You give yourself too little credit. You have made it this far. What if this is the worst it ever gets? Give yourself a chance to get past it, Cullen!”

Couldn’t she see what would happen if he did that? “If I am unable to fulfill those vows I kept, then nothing good has come of this, all the pain I’ve put myself through. Would you rather save face than admit—“ He cut himself off when the door opened.

“I’m not saving face, Cullen,” Cassandra told him more quietly. “I am trying to save you.”

The Inquisitor approached them, looking up at them both with a calm firmness that said he wasn’t going to be put off when he asked, “What’s going on?”

“I have told Cassandra that I need to be replaced as Commander of the Inquisition.”

“And I have told him that I will recommend no such thing.”

“Good. That’s nonsense,” Thule said. 

“It is not nonsense!” Cullen cried, affronted. Both of them were treating him like a child who didn’t know what was best, but neither of them knew what this was like. “At Adamant, I could have—“

“At Adamant, you breached the walls like you do it every day, and I hear your fighting in the battle itself was an inspiration to everyone around you. Hm.” Thule narrowed his eyes, studying Cullen thoughtfully. “Could this be a reaction? Battle creates a certain exhilaration, we’ve all experienced it, and the aftermath is a let-down.”

“Yes!” Cassandra nodded. “That must be what this is, Cullen, the reaction to the battle heightened by your symptoms.”

“Heightened by, heightening, probably both.” Thule reached out and put a hand on Cullen’s arm. “Give it a few days, at least, before we make any momentous decisions. Not only are you excellent at your job, I don’t know how the Inquisition would replace you, much less get someone else up to speed in the time we would have to do it in. We need you, Cullen.”

“I …” He stared at them. He couldn’t talk them both down, and the Inquisitor was right, he hadn’t considered what would be lost while a replacement was chosen and trained. “I will give it a few days.” He left the forge, feeling lost and miserable.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________-  
Thule found Varric in the main hall, head down, scribbling madly. “Oh, good, you’re working on it.”

“Working on what?”

“ _Swords & Shields_.”

Varric laughed. “Hardly. I may never work on that one again; it’s horrible. The last issue barely sold enough to pay for the ink.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a fan.”

“No, but I know someone who is.”

Varric put down his quill and leaned back in his chair. “Well, don’t leave me in suspense. Who is it? I know—Curly.”

Thule grinned. “No, but close.”

“You’re shitting me. The Seeker reads the romance serial? Oh, this is a glorious day.” Varric laughed. “Thnak you, Stones, I needed that.”

“I’m completely serious.”

“I know you are, that’s what makes it so good. So, you’re here to ask me if I’ll write her the next chapter.” Varric shook his head theatrically. “I don’t know … I don’t usually write on commission …”

Thule crossed his arms and frowned at his friend. “How much?”

“You don’t think filthy lucre is going to get this done, do you? Oh, no, I’m going to want something much more interesting than coin. Ah, and here I thought a hole in the sky would be the weirdest thing in my day.”

“You did not think that.”

“No, you’re right; a dozen things stranger than a hole in the sky happen in this Inquisition every day.” Varric grinned, and Thule glared at him.

“How much, Varric?”

“Come on, Stones, it’s such a terrible idea you know I can’t resist it. But, one condition.”

“Name it,” Thule said, not without some inward misgiving. Knowing Varric, the condition could be anything from getting him a pet monkey to installing a statue of Bethany in the center of Kirkwall. Which, now that he thought of it, wasn’t such a terrible idea … but maybe in Lothering or Amaranthine, instead. He’d have to talk to Alistair.

Varric said, “I get to be there when you give her the pages.”

Well, that didn’t have bad idea written over it, not at all. “Fine,” Thule said, over his misgivings.

“Good. Now get lost while I work.” Varric picked up the quill and flipped the parchment over to the blank side on the back. “Come get me after dinner, it should be ready by then.”

“After dinner? I thought you slaved over these things for weeks, editing and polishing and perfecting?”

“Our little secret,” Varric said absently, the quill already moving.

“Charlatan.”

“Yeah, yeah. If this works, you name your first baby after me. Tethras Cadash Pentaghast has a nice ring to it.”

Thule considered a very rude response, but remembered just in time that he was the Inquisitor, and he walked off with at least some of his dignity intact.

He came back, as ordered, after dinner. “Finished?”

“Oh, it’s a masterpiece. I’ve never written anything this tragically, beautifully, amazingly awful in my life. I consider it my tour de force.”

“Varric, if you write this for her and it’s utter crap …”

“Yes, I know, you’ll drag me all over the ass end of Thedas and ruin my boots. Oh, wait, you already do that.” They looked at one another steadily before Thule groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Let’s do this.”

“Such enthusiasm. And here I thought you were wooing the lady. If I can offer a bit of advice …”

“You can shut it, is what you can do,” Thule snapped.

“I see she’s already having a fine effect on you.”

Cassandra was just leaving the training grounds, looking sweaty and a bit disheveled and completely glorious. Thule wanted to lick the sweat off her neck. Hastily, he tried to think of something else.

Meanwhile, Cassandra was glaring at Varric. “What have you done now?”

“Is that any way to apologize?”

“Apologize? That was weeks ago, and you are still angry?”

“You tried to throw me off the balcony!”

Cassandra took a deep breath, with a visible effort. “Fine, you are correct, I did. And I apologize.”

“Thank you. For what it’s worth, I apologize, too. I could have been more … forthcoming, but … I feared for Hawke’s life.”

“A valid concern,” Cassandra conceded.

Varric held out the bundle of parchment. “A peace offering.”

She stared at it with suspicion. “What is this?”

“The next chapter of _Swords & Shields_. A little bird told me you’re a fan.”

“A little bird with a big mouth.” Cassandra’s grey eyes were boring into the top of Thule’s skull.

“Well, if you’re not interested …” Varric moved the bundle out of Cassandra’s reach and made as if to turn around and leave.

“Wait!” 

Varric smiled, not entirely nicely. “You’re probably wondering what happens to the Knight-Captain.”

“Nothing should happen to her,” Cassandra protested. “She was falsely accused.”

Thule didn’t mind at all being nothing more than a fly on the wall for this conversation. To see Cassandra so animated was making his day. His week. Possibly his month. Of course, it would have been nice if she’d showed as much enthusiasm for him … but he had facilitated this, at least. He’d take what he could get.

“Well,” Varric said, flipping open the bundle and perusing a page, “it turns out the guardsman …”

Cassandra took a step toward him, reaching for the pages. “Don’t tell me!”

Varric handed the bundle over. “This is the part where you thank the Inquisitor,” he whispered theatrically. “I don’t normally give sneak peeks, after all.” He headed back to the keep, leaving Thule alone with Cassandra … and her chapter.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“My pleasure.”

She was staring down at the pages, her eyes shining. “I wonder if I have time to read the first part?”

“You could read it to me,” Thule suggested. 

Cassandra looked at him. “Some other time, perhaps.”

“I look forward to it.”

He left her to her reading, not that she noticed. Leaning against the railing of the practice circle, she was already engrossed. Thule couldn’t help but smile, glad that he could make her happy, even in a small way.


	17. Clearing the Air

_The Templar knelt in the circle of light, swaying back and forth as he stammered the Chant. In front of Alistair, Leyden froze, her eyes fixed on his face._

_“Friend of yours?”_

_“In a manner of speaking.”_

_Something about the way she said it made Alistair’s chest tighten with jealousy. Ridiculous, really, because Leyden was with Leliana … but the way she looked at him across the campfire at night, the way she walked with him at the end of the day, listening so intently to everything he said, her grave attention to him—he couldn’t help thinking that maybe there was something there. Maker, how he wanted there to be something between them._

_He drew his attention back to Leyden with an effort. She was trying to reason with the Templar, and he was on his feet now, pleading with—something, a spirit or a demon that only he could see, to take Leyden away, to stop tormenting him with visions of her. The Templar was babbling, words of love and pieces of the Chant and desperate pleas and fearful cries falling out of him. Alistair wondered if he could ever recover from what he had been through here in the Tower, and was ashamed to find that he hoped not, if it meant Leyden would want to be with him instead. What kind of a horrible monster was he, Alistair asked himself, to hope this man would stay broken out of his own selfish desire for a woman who was currently pledged to someone else entirely? Perhaps he was the one possessed._

_They left the Templar where he was—they had to get to the chamber above, to stop Uldred before things got any worse, and as they climbed the stairs, Alistair saw Leyden looking back over her shoulder._

_“He was such a gentle soul,” she whispered. “He didn’t deserve this.”_

_“Do any of us?” Alistair asked, and he pushed past her into the chamber._

He couldn’t help thinking of that day as he climbed the steps to the battlements, watching as Cullen went into his office. Never in a thousand ages would he have imagined Cullen could pull himself together as well as he had. Even in Kirkwall, there had been a sense that Cullen’s sanity hung by a thread, and Knight-Commander Meredith’s own madness hadn’t helped. Here in the Inquisition, Cullen’s torment looked different—there was pain in his eyes and in his face, suffering, but there was a calm in him, too, as though he had won through to some place of peace. Leyden would have been pleased with that, Alistair told himself, wincing as he felt that familiar dull pang of jealousy and resentment. A better man could have left that behind, forgiven those who loved her for having what he had wanted all for himself.

Perhaps he should apologize to Cullen, try to clear the air between them. Certainly it had to be time now, didn’t it? He didn’t knock, afraid that if he announced himself to Cullen the Commander would ask him to go away. As the door opened, he heard Cullen give a great cry of rage, and then something was flying past his head, splintering on the door behind him.

Cullen froze, his eyes wide. “Maker’s breath! I—I didn’t hear you.”

“So I see.” Alistair looked down at the debris at his feet. A wooden box, shattered pieces of glass, a blue liquid standing in puddles on the stone … “Lyrium?”

“Yes,” Cullen admitted unwillingly.

Alistair closed the door behind him. “You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Without moving, Alistair raised his eyebrows.

Cullen glared at him.

“Let me guess: too much lyrium? Effects taking a toll on you?” Cullen’s face remained stony, and Alistair realized what the pain he had seen must be the result of, and the peace, too. “Effects of not taking it?”

Sighing, Cullen nodded. His shoulders slumped.

“I congratulate you on still being alive.”

“You’re too kind.”

Alistair ignored the sarcasm. “Not many have the courage to do what you’re doing.”

“You think I don’t know that? I’m trying—I want to be an example, to show other Templars that we can break this chain. I—“ He clenched his teeth and groaned, catching himself on the edge of the desk as his face went white, but he waved off Alistair’s attempt to help. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Which is it?”

Cullen growled. “I never meant for this to interfere. After … after Kirkwall, I chose—I didn’t want to be tied to the Order, not this way, not any longer. And then Cassandra came, with the offer to join the Inquisition, to make a difference, and I—“ He shook his head. “I shouldn’t …”

“Yes, you should.” Alistair took a step forward. “You’re right; the Templars need to stop poisoning themselves. You’ve made it this far—“

“For whatever good it does,” Cullen snapped. “Promises mean nothing if I cannot keep them; my words, my efforts, mean nothing if I cannot follow through.”

“Then follow through! I know what you’ve suffered—“

“Oh, you know what I’ve suffered? Have you watched the people you were charged to protect be taken over by demons, become abominations? Have you been forced to fulfill your vow by cutting them down, the old, the sick, the children? Have you seen your friends slaughtered by the very people they had come to care for, the very people they had watched over?”

Alistair remained silent, sensing Cullen needed to get this off his chest.

“Have you been tortured?” Cullen asked savagely. “Have you spent hours, _hours_ , trying to retain your sanity while demons tried to break your mind, while they used the very thing you loved against you? How—“ He let out his breath in a long, shuddering sob. “How can you be the same person after that?”

He wasn’t asking Alistair. His face was turned upward, beseeching the Maker for an answer that had never come, would never come. After a moment he gave a shuddering sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. He ran his fingers through his hair and then the hand ended up on the back of his neck, squeezing the muscles there.

“Well, you can’t, obviously,” Cullen said in a calmer voice. “You saw me, after. You saw what I said to Le—to her, how I treated her. I wanted—Maker knows how much I needed her right in that moment, but she was … she was already lost to me. And then she—you were gone, and I was left at Kinloch, left to serve in the scenes of unimaginable nightmares. So I petitioned to be reassigned. I begged. And they sent me to Kirkwall.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I trusted my Knight-Commander, I even went along with her, believing that in order to prevent what had happened in Ferelden mages needed oversight, discipline. Her fear of mages ended in madness. Mine could have, so easily. It needed only a nudge, only a step, and I would have been there with her, next to her. And because I wasn’t strong enough to stop it, Kirkwall’s Circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets.” He turned stricken eyes in Alistair’s direction. “Can you doubt how much I wanted to put that life behind me?”

“No. I don’t doubt it in the least,” Alistair said quietly. “But it seems a … challenging time to start over, what with everything that’s happened.”

“I always have liked a challenge,” Cullen said, a faint, wry smile turning the corner of his mouth.

“You seem to have found one.”

Cullen sighed heavily. “I thought this would be better, that I would gain some control over my life. But these thoughts won’t leave me! She comes to me at night, the whispers, the … demons in my head. I can’t—I can’t!” He groaned aloud. “How many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause—how can I give less to the Inquisition than I gave to the Order?”

The words gave Alistair a jolt. He knew himself to have been guilty of giving less, far less, to Ferelden than he had given to the Grey Wardens, and to no one’s benefit. 

Cullen was staring at the remnants of the lyrium at Alistair’s feet. “I should be taking it,” he said softly. Then, again, more loudly, “I should be taking it!” He turned and punched the bookcase to let out his frustrations.

Alistair was torn, because he felt the torment in the other man, and he knew from his own brief tenure in the Templars what those cut off from lyrium suffered—but Cullen had come so far, shown such strength. How could he stand by and let this man give up? Leyden had loved Cullen once; didn’t Alistair owe this to her?

“So that’s it?” he asked. “Things get difficult, and you back down?”

Cullen looked at him, his brown eyes glaring at Alistair across the room.

“You’ve built an army, Commander. Who will lead it if not you? To whom will you abandon your men? How will you explain to them that their Commander gave up?”

“That’s not—“

“Then you are capable of leading your men.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Cullen snapped, his voice stronger.

“Then do it, man! Be the man … you always should have been.”

For a moment, they stood there, looking at one another, Cullen’s eyes blazing fire. Then he sighed, and his hand lifted to rub the back of his neck again. “You’re right.”

Alistair grinned. “I hear that so rarely. Could you repeat it?”

Cullen looked at him, a very clear “don’t push it” in his eyes, and Alistair wiped the grin off his face. “Tell me something, Your Majesty.”

“Yes?”

“The other Wardens … why weren’t you affected in the same way as they were?”

Alistair shook his head. “I’m not certain. My best guess is that I am the only living Warden who was in Fer—“ He remembered Blackwall’s secret just in time, and said instead, “who was near the Archdemon when it died. I know what that sounded like, what it felt like. They didn’t.” His jaw clenched, the old anger taking him again. “Maybe if they had been here, if they had helped us, even a little … they would all still be alive. And so would she,” he finished in a whisper.

“Alistair.” Cullen had never used his name before, and Alistair’s head snapped up at the word. “You have to let her go.”

“Have you? Can you?”

“I … don’t know. But—I shouldn’t do this,” Cullen said, a smile playing across his features. “But it appears I’m going to. Hawke … she wasn’t involved in what Anders did, but she has taken the brunt of it. She’s lost her sister—she’s lost everything. Perhaps I can’t let go of the past, but I have no future hanging in front of me, no one who needs what I can give. I hurt only myself. Can you say the same?”

Suddenly, those brown eyes were clear of the pain and the confusion that had been in them when Alistair walked in; they rested on him with a challenge, and Alistair was afraid, desperately afraid, it was a challenge he could not meet. “I—I—I have to go,” he said hastily, and he left the room, hoping that he had done Cullen some good, and shame-facedly certain he didn’t have the strength the other man possessed.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Varric was trying to write, but the words wouldn’t come; his quill hovered motionless over the page while he tried not to think about Sunshine, and how drawn and in pain she had looked in the Fade, and how lost and hollow-eyed Hawke looked now. But he couldn’t stop thinking about them, and eventually he gave up and threw the quill down on the pile of papers in front of him and got up.

He walked out to the gardens, largely because he thought he stood little chance of seeing anyone there he didn’t want to talk to … and because he thought Daisy might be there, which she was. If anyone seemed as confused about what had happened in the Fade as he was, it was Daisy.

She looked over at him as he fell into step beside her. “Varric? What are you doing out here?”

“Taking a walk?”

“Have you ever done that before?”

He shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“I suppose so.” But she looked doubtful.

“How are you holding up, Daisy?”

“All right.” She sighed. “Better than Hawke.”

“Yeah. That was a tough blow, losing her sister like that.”

“Yes. I wish she could understand why Bethany chose to stay behind, though.”

“I’m not sure I do, either.”

Merrill looked down at him in surprise. “You saw her, Varric. You know she never wanted to be a Grey Warden in the first place; you were there in the Deep Roads; you were the one who told me what happened. And then, just as she started to relax and find a family there, it fell apart, from the inside out.” She shook her head, her eyes far away. “When your clan turns against you, it’s difficult not to turn against yourself.”

Varric remembered that day at Sundermount with a shudder. He had never seen anything like it; he hoped never to again. He kept silent, not feeling that he had any right to argue with Daisy on that particular topic. “Any chance you could find yourself a new clan, Daisy?” He really meant Chuckles; he had seen the way the two elves were drawn to one another, the way their eyes sought each other’s in a room. You could practically feel the connection between them, the understanding. Except that he knew Daisy always held something back, and he was damned sure there was more to Chuckles than he let on.

“You mean …” Merrill’s cheeks turned pink, but her eyes were troubled. “Where did he come from, Varric?”

“Chuckles? Hard to say. He just walked into camp one day. The Seeker was suspicious, but then the Conclave happened, and Chuckles was the only one who knew how to help Stones, so he stayed on. He was the one who found Skyhold, I ever tell you that?”

“No.”

Varric launched into the story, and Merrill nodded in all the right places, but her mind was elsewhere, studying on the mystery of Chuckles, and she looked like she didn’t like where it was taking her. He made a mental note to keep an eye on her, and on the other elf. He had seen enough of the people he loved hurt on his watch; he didn’t want to stand by and let it happen to Daisy.

Abruptly, she turned aside from the path, back toward the main building. “Come on, Varric.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going to talk to Hawke.”


	18. The Memory of the Dead

_A pudgy hand reached up from the cradle, fingers spread like a star. They grazed Lilias’s face, and she giggled. “Papa, it tickles.”_

_“She likes you. Remember, you’re her big sister—she’ll look up to you, and you’ll look out for her. It’s the way families are.”_  
…  
“Wiwi, Wiwi, wait for me!” 

_Lilias ran on ahead, giggling, but stopped when she heard the cries behind her, the wails that said Bethany had fallen on her toddling little feet. She turned and went back, lifting the little girl back off the ground and brushing off her dirty clothes. “It’s okay. I’ll walk with you.” She put out her hand, and Bethany’s sticky fingers closed on it._  
…  
The loft above her was silent, but Lilias knew Bethany was there. It was their private place, where they went to get away from all of Carver’s noise and the bustle of the little farmyard. “Bethany,” she whispered. 

_No response, but she climbed the ladder anyway._

_“I know you’re here.”_

_In the far corner, shadowy in the waning light of the afternoon, she found her sister huddled, knees drawn up and face hidden in them. The tear-stained face looked up at her. “Lilias … I’m—I’m a mage.”_

_“I know.” They all knew; Bethany had made it abundantly clear when she’d sent Carver flying across the yard, lightning crackling where she’d pushed him. He was fine—you couldn’t hurt Carver with a hammer—but Bethany had been stunned, horrified by what she’d done._

_“What are we going to do, sister?”_

_“Father will train you,” Lilias said with a confidence she was far from feeling. “And we’ll all hide you. No one is taking you away, Bethany. I promise. Not ever.”_

But someone had taken her away. Bethany herself had chosen death over remaining in the world. Lilias shivered, curled into a ball under the covers. Had they all chosen death? Father, Carver, Mother, Bethany? She was the only one left—had she done something wrong, to be left behind like this, alone?

Maybe she should go, too. Nothing was keeping her here. 

Her mind drifted in the direction of a pair of broad, warm shoulders and a smile, but she pulled it back as if the image was glass and would cut her if she touched it. He didn’t want her; he was still pining for the Hero of Ferelden. Who had also chosen death, or been chosen by it, one or the other.

Yes, she thought, maybe it was time. Maybe it was well past time.

A knock sounded on the door, nearly deafening in the silence Lilias had been trying to wrap around herself. When the door opened moments later, she felt the ghost of a familiar smile tug at the corner of her mouth. Her lips formed the name. Varric.

“Taking yourself a little midafternoon snooze, Hawke?” he asked briskly.

“Time to get up, _lethallan_ ,” another voice said, more gently.

She wanted to ask them why, but she was afraid they’d give her an answer. So she said nothing.

The mattress sagged slightly as one of them, almost certainly Merrill, sat down next to Lilias. In a moment, she felt the familiar light touch of the mage’s hand on her hair. “Bethany was a hero. Let her sacrifice matter, _lethallan_. Don’t diminish it by trying to hold onto her against her wishes.”

“How do you know her wishes?”

“She told His Majesty it was her choice.”

“That’s what he said,” Lilias said dully. She didn’t really think Alistair would lie, but … why would Bethany choose to give up her life?

“It isn’t his fault,” Merrill said, her hand still stroking Lilias’s hair, the motion repetitive and soothing.

“Isn’t it? He could have stayed, and fought. He’s a Grey Warden.”

“He does have a kingdom to look after,” Varric pointed out.

Lilias pushed herself up into a sitting position, blinking at the dwarf in the light as the covers slid off her head. “He’s not looking after it now,” she said belligerently.

“I believe he thinks he is, by helping to fight Corypheus. Sunshine’s not the first we’ve lost to that bastard … Sadly, she won’t be the last. We have to stop him, Hawke. You and me. The way we tried to the first time.”

“Tried and failed,” she reminded him.

“Yes, and that makes it our job to try again, and to keep trying until it’s gone. All these people are here in Skyhold because of what we awakened, what we set free and allowed to escape.”

“How?”

“I don’t know how,” he snapped impatiently. “I only know that we had a chance to stop it before it came to this and we failed, and now we have to be there until the end. We can’t give up, Hawke!”

She had never seen him quite this agitated. “Can we, Varric? Do you really believe we can do it this time when we didn’t before?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to offer her a glib assurance; she knew him well enough to see that. But he stopped himself, and sighed, and said, “I don’t know, Lilias. I don’t know. But I have to try. And … I think you do, too.”

“I miss her, Varric. And my mother, and my father, and Carver … I hate being the last one left. As long as I had Bethany, it was like I could still be part of that, still be one of the Hawkes and not just the Hawke, you know?” She scrunched up her face, holding back tears, and felt Merrill’s gentle hands on her shoulders, the light touch so familiar. Merrill had been there all along, after the Chantry and after her mother and after Alistair. She reached up and took one of the mage’s hands in hers. “Thank you, Merrill. So much. For everything.”

“My pleasure, always, _lethallan_.”

Varric watched until Lilias managed to push herself out of the bed, and then he nodded, as if satisfied. “When this is all over, Hawke, when we’re picking pieces of Corypheus out of our clothes, if you still want to give up, I’ll let you. But until then—we need you. We need the woman who came to Kirkwall and took charge, who brought a whole motley crew together and made us a team. We need the Champion of Kirkwall.”

Lilias sighed. She wasn’t sure if there had ever really been a Champion of Kirkwall, and certainly wasn’t sure if that person still lurked somewhere inside her. But Varric was right—she had an obligation to help defeat Corypheus, and the person she had been since Anders blew up the Chantry wasn’t going to get that done.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The statue of Andraste still wasn’t speaking to her, as much as Leliana wished it would. She used to be so certain of the Maker’s words, of His love for the world He had created. She missed that certainty.

A squeak of leather on stone behind her caused her to freeze in her position, her mind automatically tracing the path her fingers would take to the blade concealed in her boot.

And then a familiar chuckle sounded, and she allowed herself to breathe out. “Inquisitor,” she said, getting to her feet. “Sometimes I forget you have been trained so well.”

“The Carta does like its sneaks and spies,” he agreed amiably. 

“Must you practice on your own Spymaster?”

“Can’t go letting my skills get rusty.” He grinned at her, and she smiled back, glad once more that the Inquisitor was a man she could genuinely respect.

“Nor mine, I suppose. I was lost in thought and didn’t hear you enter.”

“Thought, but not prayer?” he asked.

“Yes. Sadly.”

“I hope when this is over, you can learn to pray again.”

“As do I.” She nodded. “Yes. Thank you for the thought.” Leliana looked down at him in curiosity. “You said that after your trip through the Fade, you remember everything, yes? All the memories you lost after the Conclave?”

“Yes. I remember.” He looked as if he wished he didn’t.

“I understand Justinia was with you, in the Fade. But only you emerged in the end. Why? Why were you the only survivor?”

“I tried, Leliana. I really tried. She helped me to climb to the Breach, pushed me through. I reached back for her, but—demons tore her from me. I couldn’t stop them.”

“There was no time to think. Only to act.”

Thule nodded. “I … should have been quicker. To think, and to act, but …” He spread his hands out before him, helplessly, and Leliana caught the glint of green from the Anchor. “I’m a dwarf. I was in the Fade. I—it was all so unbelievable. I’m sorry.”

Leliana nodded. She believed him, for all that she had spent many hours since learning of this going over the events in her mind, trying to imagine how she could have saved Justinia had she only been there, where she should have been. “Her message to me,” she said softly. “’I failed you, too.’ I’m trying to understand it.”

“She meant it. It was heartfelt. If spirits, or memories, or whatever that was, have hearts.”

“Was there anything else? Any other message, other words? Please, if you remember anything …” She hated to beg, but … Justinia had been her rock, her comfort and support. Without her, Leliana felt bereft, as though she was no longer the person she had once known herself to be. She had changed so often before, you would think she would be used to it now, but … she wasn’t.

“Leliana.” Thule’s frank blue eyes were on her, studying her, and she quailed from his gaze, not wanting him to see how lost she was. “It does you no good to dwell on her now. She wouldn’t want that. She’s gone, and I think she would want you to accept that.”

“How do you know what she would want?” Leliana protested. She could hear the heaviness of tears in her own voice, and she took a step back from him, to keep him from seeing. She waved a hand angrily in front of her. “It is not for you to decide what is and isn’t good for me.”

“But I do have to decide what is and isn’t good for the Inquisition.” His voice was as gentle as the words were firm. “We need you, Leliana, and we need all of you, what’s good and gentle as well as what’s hard and willing to make the decisions that must be made.”

“But you don’t understand,” she cried. “Justinia never failed me! She was always there, always what I needed. How can her last words to me be those I do not understand? And more than that—I was her Left Hand. I was meant to protect her, but Corypheus gained access to the Conclave under my very nose. He brought in Grey Wardens without my knowledge. I failed her! Don’t you see? I failed her, and she is the one apologizing!”

She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop the flow of words, unable to believe she had let herself go like that. When was the last time she had spoken so openly, so from the tumultuous depths of her heart? In the dead of night, at Justinia’s side, whispering her secrets and her sins into the ears that were always listening.

Thule just looked at her. He didn’t move toward her, he didn’t run, he didn’t reach to comfort her. He just waited while she got herself under control.

And then, in a voice that was even and soft and thoughtful, he said, “That is the Leliana we need. If being the Left Hand caused you to cut yourself off from that, maybe that’s what the Divine was apologizing for.” He gave a small smile. “When you find yourself at the Maker’s side, you can ask her.”

“I …” Leliana wanted to apologize for losing control in front of him, but she was still trying to understand what he meant by “that is the Leliana we need”. Emotional? Distraught? Confused? At sea? How could that Leliana run a spy ring—or anything? From anyone else, she would have discounted the words, but the Inquisitor had earned her respect. He had earned the right for his words to be taken seriously.

He was still watching her, and now he smiled, seeming to follow her thought processes. “You let me know when you figure it out.”

Then he was gone, leaving Leliana alone with the silent Andraste and the memory of the dead.


	19. A Better Way

_The Archdemon roared its challenge across the rooftop. With Riordan gone, the last hope for happiness had gone, too. Alistair caught Leyden’s hand. “I can’t let you do this.”_

_She pulled it away. “I’m not giving you a choice.”_

_“I don’t want to live without you, can’t you see? You—you’re everything! You are the only person in my life who has ever believed I amounted to anything, other than Duncan, and he’s—I can’t lose you both.”_

_“Alistair,” Leyden whispered. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”_

_“I’m not. I’m making it easier. You get your life, and Anora gets her throne, and I get to be a hero, and Ferelden gets saved from the Archdemon.” He was nearly weeping now, and he should probably be ashamed of that, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t fathom a life without her, and he didn’t want to. Not ever._

_Leyden lifted a hand to his face. Her glove was spattered with blood, some of it rubbing off on his face, but neither of them cared. “You’re going to be the king. You’re going to be the best king you can possibly be—for me, if not for yourself, or your people. And you’re going to live, and find someone to love, someone who—someone you can bring home to the Landsmeet.”_

_“Oh, Maker. Leyden. Please don’t make me watch you die.” There were tears now, rolling down his cheeks._

_“I need you here, Alistair. I need your sword, and your shield, and your strength, if we’re going to defeat this thing. Can you do that for me?”_

_He nodded, overcome, convinced at last that she wasn’t going to let him do this in her place. “I love you.”_

_She reached up on her toes, pulling his head down to hers, and kissed him, fiercely and hard. And then she let go and turned away, and battle was joined. Those were the last words they ever spoke to each other._

Alistair woke with a start, sitting up abruptly in the bed. He rubbed his face with his hands. Maker, he hated waking with his cheeks already wet with tears. Why couldn’t he let the past go? Why couldn’t he let Leyden go?

They were the same questions that had been on his mind when he went to sleep the night before, and as a result, Leyden had swirled through his dreams in all her glory, breathtaking and brilliant and flashing fire. She had truly been spectacular, he thought. In combat, as a leader, in bed …

Alistair got up and started getting dressed to avoid letting his thoughts—and his body—go down that path. There had been an anger in Leyden, too, he reminded himself, simmering just beneath the surface. That was what had given her the fire. She had enjoyed playing with Leliana, playing with Alistair, occasionally flirting with Zevran. But the assassin had understood her, possibly better than the others, and hadn’t fallen for her games. Eventually she had let him alone, other than on those nights when she toyed with Zevran in order to make Alistair jealous. She had enjoyed seeing the anger in him, enjoyed the power in his body when he took her—

He stopped that line of thought, again, with an inward growl. Because for all the nights they came together sweating and cursing and she brought out the warrior in him, there had been the nights when he wanted to be gentle, to touch her reverently and show her how much he loved her, and Leyden had frozen under his touch, or squirmed away. 

That was the truth, then. Leyden had never been a woman who wanted to be loved. Wanted, yes. Desired, longed for, taken, fought for, sought after … but she could never slow down, never trust enough to be loved. Alistair had forgotten that, buried it, in the years since, told himself that she would have changed if she had survived the Blight, she would have learned to accept the love he so longed to give. Because he was a man who _wanted_ to love. The more aggressive man Leyden had demanded of him had been satisfying physically, but emotionally it had left him wanting more. Was that why he had never been able to let go? 

She was gone; he had to accept that, at last. He had to stop hiding behind the robes of a dead woman and decide what he was going to do with his life. Enough years had been wasted mourning. Leyden had loved him as much as she was capable of; that he believed with all his heart. And she had given him his life when she chose to die facing the Archdemon. What had he done with that gift that made any difference to anyone at all?

As he looked into the glass to do his hair, another face came to his mind’s eye—similar to Leyden’s but softer, more open, the blue eyes warm where Leyden’s had burned. Lilias. So like her cousin and so different, at the same time. She had deserved better at his hands. He had used her to fill the empty place Leyden had left behind, treated her as though her value lay in the similarities of their faces, in the shared blood that ran through their veins.

He met his own eyes in the mirror, taking a good long look at the man who stood there. That man had a lot to apologize for. He had muffed so many opportunities, through sheer obliviousness and mismanagement and going about things the wrong way. It was time to fix that, and he wanted to start with Lilias. He remembered the way she had felt in his arms after the Fade, like a broken doll, and then he remembered what it had been like to fight at her side in Kirkwall, the focus and the dancing surety of her blade. He wanted to help her bring back that woman, or at least find in herself that woman’s strength. And he wanted to help her, and Varric and the Inquisitor, take down Corypheus. After that … well, there would be time to worry about after that later.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule climbed the steps above the blacksmith shop slowly, not sure how Cassandra was going to react to being interrupted. She had been silent and withdrawn since they had come back from Ferelden. Not that he blamed her—the betrayal of Lord Seeker Lucius had cut her deeply, and the loss of her former apprentice had been devastating. Thule had seen that despite how hard she tried to hide the extent of her pain. And he had wanted to go to her … but at the same time, irrationally, it had stung that she hadn’t turned to him in the first place. Didn’t she know, by now, how he felt about her?

But of course, how would she? He had hardly spoken out, too afraid she would reject him, too sure that she could never look down and see him as a man worthy of her, so he had let hints and looks and innuendo speak for him.

So he had stepped back and given her the space she seemed to need—but this was getting beyond what seemed healthy, even for someone as self-contained as Cassandra. 

With that in mind, his knock on her door was very firm.

“Go away.”

“Not happening, Cassandra.”

“Please go away.”

He opened the door, instead. “I can’t do that. Not until I’m sure that you’re all right.”

Cassandra was sitting at a table with the tome Lord Seeker Lucius had given her open in front of her. As she looked up at Thule, he could see that her face was paler than usual, dark smudges under her grey eyes that indicated she hadn’t been sleeping much.

“You look terrible.”

“I … I did not ask you to come here. Please go away.”

He came further into the room, closing the door behind him. “It’s me, Cassandra. Talk to me. Tell me what’s in that book that has you so …” He couldn’t find a word that seemed to fit how devastated she appeared.

Cassandra swallowed, her fingers lightly touching the open page. “This book has passed from Lord Seeker to Lord Seeker, since the time of the old Inquisition.”

“It’s well preserved.”

“Yes. No doubt magically.” She withdrew her fingers from the book with a faint shudder. “Now it has fallen to me.”

“Does that make you the Lord Seeker?”

“I don’t know.” Cassandra sighed wearily. “I don’t … I no longer know if I would want to be.”

“That bad?” He looked at the book, frowning. “Maybe you should have left it to rot, after what happened.”

“I wonder the same.” Her voice was dull, and Thule looked at her in surprise.

“You mean that?”

“I don’t know what I mean. Do you know what the Rite of Tranquility is?”

“Yes.” They had several Tranquil in the Inquisition. They gave Thule the creeps, with their blank faces and monotone voices.

“It is supposed to be the last resort, used on mages in the Circles who are considered particularly at risk of demonic possession, or of resorting to blood magic. It leaves them unable to reach their magic, but also cuts them off from their dreams and all emotion.”

Thule thought of Kirkwall, where he had lived briefly, and some of the rumors there when Meredith had been in charge. “It’s misused at times, too, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Sadly, that is undeniable.”

“It sounds horrible, to live without emotion.”

Cassandra nodded. “I always thought it a necessary evil, but … perhaps … perhaps we should always have been searching for a better way.”

“Why is this relevant now? Is there something in the book—“

Her eyes met his, and Thule stopped speaking at the look there. “The book says we have always known how to reverse the Rite of Tranquility. From the beginning. And yet we never shared that information with anyone.”

“Why not?”

“Because—we created the Rite.”

Thule frowned, not understanding.

“To become a Seeker, I spent months in a vigil, emptying myself of all emotion.”

Well, that explained quite a few things. He wondered what she must have been like before that—had she been filled with all the unbridled passion that he could sense somewhere deep within her? Then he realized the implication of what she was saying. “You were made Tranquil?”

“Exactly. Then the vigil summoned a spirit of faith to touch my mind. That broke Tranquility—and gave me my abilities. That has been done to every Seeker for generations, and none of us were ever told exactly what it was we went through. If we had known—if we had known, and if we had shared what we knew … could we have stopped the mage rebellion, eliminated the need for the Conclave?” Tears shone in her eyes.

“You can’t think that way.”

“Can’t I? I see no other way to think than to blame so many of the deaths that we mourn on my own Order, on the very people I saw as my friends and allies, on the tenets on which I have built my life. Do you see?”

“Cassandra … that isn’t your fault.”

“Isn’t it? If I had been more forceful, more focused, less blind, could I not have seen?”

“You’re talking about secrets kept for a thousand years, and you think one woman could have changed the course?”

“Why not? You are one man, and you have changed … so much. The same for the Champion of Kirkwall and the Hero of Ferelden. Can I not do as much?”

Thule reached across the table for her hand, but she withdrew it. “You already have! You declared the Inquisition in the first place, you brought us all together and created the first camp. If I hadn’t ended up with this thing in my hand, you would be the Inquisitor.” He smiled. “Probably a better one than I am.”

Cassandra didn’t rise to the provocation. She got up from the table and walked to the window, bracing one arm on the windowsill. “I had thought to rebuild the Seekers, but now I am no longer certain the Order deserves to be rebuilt. We harbored secrets and let them fester; we acted to survive, but not to serve.”

“That’s hardly your fault.”

“Perhaps not, but I was complicit all the same.” She turned to look at him. “Will that happen to us, Inquisitor? Will we repeat history?”

He wanted to reassure her, to say what he knew she wanted to hear, but she would know what he was doing. Holding her gaze, he said, “We might.”

“That is honest, at least, if not necessarily comforting.”

“All we can do is our best as we see it, Cassandra. That’s all anyone can do.”

“There should be something better than that.”

He smiled, coming around the table toward her. “That sounds suspiciously like you want a guarantee. No one gets that, Cassandra. But … I do know that if anyone can rebuild the Seekers into something worthwhile, you can.”

She watched him approach, her face grave. “But are they worth it?”

“You’re the only one who can be sure of that.”

“And if I’m not sure?”

“Then do your best. Like you always do,” he said softly.

“I … will think on your words.”

“Good. And … you’ll come out of your room, and have something to eat?”

“Right now? With you?”

He caught his breath, wondering if she meant … but no. She didn’t mean it the way he had thought, not in her current state. “Yes,” he said. “Right now with me.”

“Very well.” She gave him a small smile. “Thank you. I … could not have found the truth on my own.”

“Anytime,” he said, meaning it. For a moment he hesitated, wanting to tell her … but it wasn’t the time. Instead he led the way from the room, glad that at least he had her talking again.


	20. For Who You Are

Josephine folded her mother’s letter, frowning. To say that being informed of her own impending marriage by letter, without any previous discussion of the topic, was a shock would be an understatement. She looked around her office. Her desk was piled with papers, the pigeonholes where she kept important correspondence were bulging. Where would she possibly get the time to be married? Not to mention that certainly her prospective bridegroom would want her to leave the Inquisition, and that was impossible.

She opened the letter again, perusing the lines in her mother’s elegant hand once more. Lord Otranto. She had a dim recollection of Lord Otranto … or did she? All the young noblemen seemed to run together in her mind, and she wasn’t certain she could pick him out of the crowd.

The door opened, and she hastily folded the letter once more just as Cassandra poked her head in. “Oh, I am sorry. You are busy.”

“Actually, less so than usual.” Josephine tucked the letter under a pile of notes from the last War Room meeting. “What’s on your mind, my friend?”

Cassandra sighed. “In truth, nothing of any importance. I find myself …” She spread her hands out in front of her and studied them. “I used to be so certain of—everything. And now I am certain of precisely nothing.”

“That is how most of us spend our lives,” Josephine told her.

“Is it? How disconcerting.”

“It can be.” Lord Otranto, Josephine thought again. Was he the one with the green eyes? Of course, she had always intended to marry, but … she had somewhat romantically, she supposed, expected to be able to choose the man for herself. Not that there was anyone within the Inquisition who had her eye, or amongst the nobles who visited, but …

“I have interrupted, after all,” Cassandra said, calling Josephine abruptly back from the train of her thoughts.

“No, no, really, I am sorry. I just …” She tilted her head and studied Cassandra curiously. “Have you ever given any thought to marriage?”

Cassandra started, as if the question seemed pertinent to her, and flushed just a little. “Why do you ask?”

“You are a woman of great skill, and you have spent many years in a position of authority. I wondered if you had ever contemplated giving that up for a quieter life, or if you had hoped to find someone to share the work with you.”

The grey eyes were steady on Josephine’s face, the weight of Cassandra’s gaze almost palpable, as if Josephine had touched a nerve. “I … have not thought about it at all.”

Josephine recognized a lie when she heard one. “So you have considered it. Ah, yes. The Inquisitor.” She smiled. “I’ve heard rumors about his prowess. Shall I tell you some tales?”

“No!” Cassandra’s eyes widened in outrage, and then narrowed as Josephine allowed her smile to turn impish. “You have heard no such thing.”

“Well, in truth, I have … but nothing to his detriment, I assure you. Indeed, I’m told he leaves his lovers quite … satisfied. If lonely.”

“So you’re saying that he treats women as playthings.”

“Not that, precisely, no. Just that he makes no promises or commitments. On the other hand, since he joined the Inquisition apparently he has either been very discreet—or very celibate.”

The two women looked at one another in silence as Cassandra digested this information. “I do not know why you are telling me this,” she said stubbornly. “What the Inquisitor does with his free time is none of my concern.”

“Isn’t it?” Josephine asked. “If you say so. Nonetheless, my question stands—have you ever considered marriage?”

“Once, long ago. I determined I wanted none of it. As a Pentaghast, I am well aware that my prime attraction on the marriage market is for my bloodline, and to bring a husband nearer to the throne of Nevarra. I will be used by no man, nor do I consider my bloodline to be part of me. Therefore, any marriage based on it would not be my marriage, but that of my family.” Cassandra stopped herself, breathing hard after her rant. “Were I ever to marry, it would be to someone who saw me for who I am, and cared for me as such. Nothing less would be acceptable.”

Josephine smiled. “I had no idea you were such a romantic.”

“Is it romantic to expect to be valued for who you are?” Cassandra asked in surprise. “I would not have thought so. Isn’t it a woman’s duty to stand up for what she deserves?”

“Yes. Of course it is,” Josephine said. She looked at the corner of her mother’s letter sticking out from under the pile of papers. “Thank you, my friend.”

“I do not know what I have done, but you are certainly welcome.”

“Would you like to have some tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

They went off to Josephine’s small private parlor, where the talk turned to books and music, but Cassandra’s words stuck in Josephine’s mind.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The Herald’s Rest was bustling, as it always was—the only tavern in Skyhold, it pulled all types. The rowdy partiers, those wishing for a quiet drink and talk, those who enjoyed Maryden’s music and wanted to listen, the habitual drunkards, the pickpockets, the bards, the spies … and those who wanted to sit and brood over their ale all night. Blackwall fell into the latter category. His usual table was in an upstairs corner, as far from the relentless upbeat partying of the Chargers as he could get.

Tonight he was thinking of Halamshiral. The Inquisitor’s formal invitation to attend the ball at the Winter Palace was expected any day, and there had already been some speculation amongst the companions as to who the Inquisitor would choose to bring with him to the party, other than his advisors, who would naturally be expected to attend. Blackwall very much wanted to be left out of this one, but he also very much wanted to avoid drawing attention to himself by asking Thule to leave him at home. “Home.” There was a word for Skyhold Blackwall had never used before … but it was that. It was where he felt comfortable, accepted, even, for the first time. Thom Rainier had never been comfortable. Oh, he had been accepted, but it had been all a game. _The_ ridiculous Game. Here he didn’t have to play games. All he had to do was wield a blade in the Inquisitor’s service. Thom Rainier would not have enjoyed being merely a cog in a wheel, but the man who called himself Blackwall certainly did.

“Warden Blackwall, do you mind if I join you?”

He looked up at the voice, his eyes meeting the merry ones of Scout Harding, and got hastily to his feet in order to pull out her chair. “If you wish.” He had meant to sound off-handed, casual, but the words meant little next to the care with which he seated her. 

She smiled, clearly not used to but liking the attention.

Blackwall resumed his seat. “I didn’t know you were back at Skyhold.”

“Got in this afternoon, been working on my field reports ever since. Not sure I’ll be able to draw my bow for a week, after all that time with a quill in my hand.” She flexed the dexterous fingers of one small, strong hand. Blackwall could see the calluses from her bow on those fingers, and a few scars, as well. He had a strong urge to take that hand in his, to massage the aching fingers. Under the table, he clenched his hand to keep from reaching for hers.

He smiled, instead. “I see you can hold a tankard with no trouble.”

Harding chuckled. “Priorities, after all.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Blackwall raised his tankard and they toasted one another, drinking deeply.

They sat for several moments in what Blackwall hoped was a comfortable silence. Certainly anything he could say would be less than comfortable—or more than comfortable, which would be equally as bad. Harding was smiling at him across the table, her pretty face shining. For him? Maker, let it be for him, he thought. And then he quashed the thought, and the searing flash of heat it sent through his body, as fast as they had come. He didn’t deserve any woman, much less someone of as much wit and intelligence as the lovely lady who sat across from him.

He bowed his head, as sorry that she had come to sit with him as he had been glad a moment ago.

“Warden Blackwall? Is there something wrong?” She hesitated. “Should I not—“

“No!” he said hastily. “No, no, not at all. I just …” He cleared his throat. “This song. It’s a bit … morose, don’t you think?”

Harding looked over her shoulder. Maryden was visible over the railing, singing in the center of the tavern. After listening to the song for a few moments, Harding said, “A little. Poignant, I would have said. Brings a lump to your throat.”

“That’s a shame, then.” When she turned back and looked at him quizzically, he couldn’t help saying, “A lady like you shouldn’t have to be sad.”

Her cheeks turned rosy, and she lowered her lashes over those beautiful green eyes. “I don’t know about that. Perhaps … perhaps we all need to be sad sometimes, because otherwise we couldn’t enjoy the happiness of sitting in a warm inn with a tankard of chilled ale and talking with someone we—really like.”

Blackwall’s heart thudded painfully in his chest, his grip tightening on the handle of his own tankard. “You flatter me, my lady.” His voice was husky in his own ears; he could only imagine how cracked and broken it sounded to her.

“Good.” Her voice was soft; he shouldn’t have been able to hear it amidst the din of the tavern, but strangely, it was the only thing he could hear, as though everything else around them had been silenced. “That’s what I intended.”

He wanted—Maker, how he wanted. But he had no right to reach for her, no right to drag her into the darkness of his endless chain of secrets and lies, no right to allow her to believe … With a great effort, Blackwall stood up. “I—need to go. I … I am sorry, Lady Harding.”

With a formal bow, he hurried off, trying not to let the hurt and saddened look on her face brand itself on his heart, but it was already far too late for that.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Merrill looked around the big room with the murals on the walls. In the light of her candle, it appeared to be empty, but she knew it was where Solas lived. She had been avoiding him since they had returned from the Fade, but she couldn’t avoid him any longer. She had to know what the Nightmare demon had meant by calling him “trickster or traitor”. In the lore, the old tales, the original trickster was Fen’Harel; was that why Solas had no _vallaslin_ , because he was most closely aligned with Fen’Harel? Was that why Solas was no longer with his clan? Had he tricked them, betrayed them, somehow? She had to know.

“You have many questions.” His voice came at her from the darkness. Merrill turned, shining the light of the candle in his direction, and Solas came into the little circle of light, his compelling eyes on her. She could feel her heart beat faster.

But she did have questions, and she had come here to gain answers. “What did he mean, the demon? He called you ‘trickster or traitor’.”

“What did he mean when he called you ‘murderer of your clan’?”

Merrill swallowed, trying to hold back the memory. “They—they attacked me. It was … them or me.”

“Why did they attack you?”

“Because—because I wanted the eluvian to work! I had given everything to it. I was exiled because of it. After Tamlen …” But she didn’t want to talk about Tamlen. Not now. “I tried everything. The only thing left was to ask the demon, but … Marethari, the Keeper of our clan, she took the demon inside herself, and I—I had to kill her.” The words spilled from her, the memory too strong to deny. “And when she was dead, the clan attacked. I … They left me no choice! Don’t you see? I didn’t want to!” The tears burst forth from her, the tears she had held back for so long by trying to pretend it had never happened.

Solas’s arms came around her, holding her against him, so gentle, his voice softly whispering to her. “Sometimes we are forced to act, Merrill, against our wishes, against our dreams and desires. Your clan chose their fates. They must have seen the power in you, the strength, and yet they came at you anyway. There was nothing you could have done.”

She cried harder. Between sobs, she gulped, “I could have let them kill me. My life for the Keeper’s. It should have been a fair trade.”

“What have you but your life? And you have only one—if you did not trade it for your clan, then there must be more that you are meant to do, more that you are meant to become.” Gently he lifted her chin, his eyes searching deep into hers. “Stop hiding, Merrill. Stop blaming yourself and allowing your guilt and fear to keep you from becoming everything you are meant to be.”

Merrill blinked back the tears, which seemed to have stopped at their source. She no longer felt the need to weep. “You—you don’t hate me?”

He chuckled softly. “For preserving your own life? No. I … have done the same, in a way.”

“Did you—did you kill your clan, too?” she asked hesitantly.

A shadow passed over his face, and Merrill shivered as if the room had suddenly grown chill. “It was a long time ago, Merrill, and it doesn’t matter now. Suffice it to say that I know the pain you feel; I have felt it, too.” He drew her close against him again, cradling her in his arms. Merrill wrapped her free arm, around his waist and pressed her face against his chest. He smelled like herbs, fresh and clean and sharp, like a winter wind.

And then he let her go, his hand lightly caressing her cheek as he did so.

“Good-night, Merrill.”

“Good-night.” She left the room as if in a dream, and it wasn’t until much later that she realized he had never actually answered any of her questions.


	21. Need to Know

_“Something’s bothering you, lover. I haven’t had a decent quip out of you since I got here.” Bianca rested her chin on his chest, looking up at him._

_“It’s nothing.” Everything in Varric wanted to tell her—but he couldn’t. How could he tell anyone, with the weight of everything that had happened resting squarely on his shoulders? He couldn’t even blame Bartrand, not anymore, not after what had happened to that sick bastard._

_“For someone who lives by lying, you’re really bad at it.” She walked her fingers up through his chest hair, a sensation Varric usually enjoyed. “Come on, out with it.”_

_“Bianca.” He caught her hand and moved it away from him._

_“It’s to do with your friend Hawke, isn’t it?”_

_“No. Well, not really,” he amended, since of course Hawke was bound up in it from first to last, through no fault of her own. But somehow she was the one who’d had to run, and there he was still cozily ensconced at the Hanged Man, like nothing had ever happened. Like an entire city hadn’t burnt because one time he and his brother got greedy._

_“Varric.”_

_Bianca wouldn’t rest until she had it out of him, he told himself, so he had no choice. Did he? And before he knew it, the whole story was spilling out—the red lyrium, the thaig, the idol, Bartrand’s betrayal. Everything that had happened to him that he hadn’t been able to write her about because it cut too close to the heart._

_“Red lyrium?” she asked when he was done. She climbed off of him, kneeling on the bed next to him, oblivious to the fact that they were both still naked. “Was it stronger than the blue?”_

_“Stronger? It made people insane, didn’t you hear me? I’d say it was stronger.”_

_“Well, we’ve got to find out where it came from, whether there’s more, don’t we?”_

_“I … suppose.” In telling her, he had forgotten she was an inventor, with all the keen curiosity and need to know that came with the genius._

_“Tell me where you found it. I’ll go looking and see what I can find, and in the meantime I’ll do some digging in the archives to see if anyone’s ever mentioned the stuff before. I have a friend in the Shaperate, maybe she’ll be willing to look, too.”_

_“Bianca.” It was a mild protest—it was already too late to stop her._

_“Sh.” She laid her fingers on his lips, her eyes dancing with the excitement of a new challenge. “No more talk. I have better things to do with you than talk.”_

He stayed late in the tavern, carousing with the Chargers. They were a cheerful bunch, and Varric needed some cheer in his life. There hadn’t been nearly enough of it lately. He couldn’t stop thinking about Sunshine, the sweet, pretty girl with the beautiful smile he had first met in Kirkwall—and the haggard, drawn Grey Warden they had all left behind in the Fade. Oh, by her own request; Varric believed that. It fit with the doom and gloom she had worn like a cloak while she was in Skyhold. But the truth was that he had gotten the Void out of there as fast as he could go, and he hadn’t stayed to make sure anyone else was safe, and he hadn’t … Well, he’d been a coward, no two ways about it. 

Eventually he decided that even the Chargers weren’t boisterous enough to silence his thoughts, and he left them, still going. He wished Cabot luck throwing them out at closing time ... although the grumpy tavernkeeper seemed perfectly capable of ruining anyone’s good time. 

The main hall of the keep was silent, the candles in the sconces flickering. Varric briefly considered working on his next chapter, but he didn’t have it in him tonight—Donnen Brennokovic had enough trouble without having Varric write him a soppy drunken scene in which he wallowed in his author’s sorrows.

His own room beckoned; maybe he’d drunk enough that he could sleep. He was going to give it his best shot, that was for sure.

He didn’t bother with a candle. His fire had been lit earlier by one of Skyhold’s army of maids. Ruffles was frighteningly efficient and a firm believer in good living … and in the power of a clean, bright room and a luxurious night’s sleep to make a noble want to open his or her purse. Varric appreciated that about her. She seemed so much softer than the Nightingale, but he believed in the end, he’d rather face the red-head’s naked ruthlessness than the brunette’s deceptive civility. At least you knew what you were getting.

Sighing, he patted Bianca on her stand, his fingers running over the smooth wood of her stock, checking for nicks and scratches. Then he shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the back of his chair, and unbuckled his belt. The tunic was next, and he was about to reach for the buttons on his pants when a low whistle sounded from the darkness in the corner of the room.

“Take it all off, lover.”

When his heart stopped pounding, he peered into the blackness, trying to see. “Bianca?”

“Told you I was coming.” She sauntered out of the shadows with that little smirk she got when she successfully snuck up on him. Varric loved that little smirk, most of the time. But he wasn’t sure he was in the mood right now.

“A little more specificity might have been nice,” he grumbled.

“Don’t pout. You know how hard it is for me to get away, and trying to get to this frozen icecap unobserved?” Bianca frowned. “I’m still not sure if your spymaster knows I’m here or not.”

“Just assume she does.”

“She’s very good, then.”

“The best.” He grasped Bianca’s hand and tugged her into the firelight so he could look at her. No matter how long it was between sightings, she never seemed to age—she was as beautiful and sexy and dangerous today as she had been the day he’d met her. But he also knew her well enough to see that this wasn’t a visit for the sheer pleasure of his company. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” she asked evasively, but her eyes wouldn’t quite meet his.

Varric sighed. “Oh, shit, what’s gone wrong?”

“The thaig. Someone found it, and … they’re carting out the red lyrium night and day.”

He stared at her, unable to believe what he was hearing. “You mean … the thaig I told you about? That thaig? _That’s_ where these red lyrium monsters are coming from?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry, Varric! I—I don’t know what happened. How they found it.” He had never seen her so genuinely upset before. She seemed almost on the verge of tears.

“I wasn’t the only one who knew. We had all sorts of people hired as muscle for the expedition, and Maker only knows who Bartrand talked to, the poor mad bastard.” He reached out, touching her on the arm. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Varric. Varric, I—“

“I know.” Maker, did he know. “It’s my fault, Bianca. If I hadn’t been so damned greedy, if I’d told Bartrand we had enough, we didn’t need more, but … I couldn’t leave well enough alone. And I dragged Hawke into it, and look where that got her, and now there’s this Corypheus guy, and that’s my fault, too.” He turned away from her and laughed bitterly. “Varric Tethras, the dumbass who destroyed the world.”

“Hey. Hey!” Bianca put her hands on his shoulders and turned him around to face her. “None of that! Not a single bit of this is your fault. Someone else would have found that thaig if you hadn’t. Someone else would have fought Corypheus. It was your bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that doesn’t make any of this your fault.”

“Nice of you to say,” Varric said wearily. He had so looked forward to her being here—it had been so long—but now that she was here, it was all just that much worse. “Look, I appreciate you coming here to tell me this in person, but it’s not safe. What if the guild found out? Or, you know, whatshisname?”

Bianca smiled, that confident, assured smile that made him believe she could do anything. “You let me handle whatshisname. And the guild.” Her hands moved from his shoulders down over his chest, her fingers threading through his chest hair. “Now … isn’t it about time you gave me a proper hello?”

Even in the midst of his despair, there was nothing proper about the way her touch made him feel. Varric pulled her close, losing himself in the heat of her mouth and the firmness of her body, and he almost—almost—forgot everything else.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana came out onto the little catwalk outside the Rookery, leaning her elbows on the railing. She was in the process of releasing her breath, letting out the tensions of the day, when she froze, holding completely still, suddenly aware of the presence of someone else here, where there should be no one.

She whirled, drawing the small dagger she carried, ready to impale whoever it was who had been sent to kill her, when she recognized him. Nathaniel Howe, Grey Warden, formerly of Amaranthine. He was shrinking back into the corner, his hands up.

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a safe place to think. It’s the best location in Skyhold, because you can see everything that’s coming but nothing can see you. No doubt why you chose it as your own personal walkway.”

“And how did you get up here?” Leliana took another step toward him, the dagger not wavering, even as it approached his neck.

“Climbed. I came down from the roof.” Nathaniel gave a faint smile. Leliana was impressed that there seemed no outward sign that he feared her blade. “I got a lot of practice at that at Vigil’s Keep.”

“As a child, or as a Grey Warden?”

“Both, really.” He swallowed, looking away. “I can’t believe what we allowed to happen there, and at Adamant. Shameful. Did you know my grandfather was a Grey Warden? My father was always ashamed of that. And now I’m ashamed of my father. I suppose life is like that.”

Leliana pulled back the hand with the dagger, just enough to give him some room. “I was with your father when he died.”

“When the Hero of Ferelden killed him, you mean.”

“He gave her very little choice. Trust me, she would have preferred to drag him before the Landsmeet in chains, but he would never have submitted to that.”

“No, I don’t imagine he would have. Did he die well?” Nathaniel’s tone was laced with sarcasm. “As if there is such a thing … but it would have mattered to him.”

Leliana shrugged. “I believe he would have thought he did, and I imagine that was enough.”

“Yes. You’re probably right. I’m sorry I trespassed up here; it really did seem the safest place in Skyhold.”

“What if I had killed you?”

“Maybe I would have had peace.”

Leliana stepped back, letting him out of the corner. “You truly believe the only peace left to you is in death?”

“I brought it to so many of my companions already—don’t I deserve to feel that cold kiss myself? Surely I must.”

“Or perhaps you have a duty to live in such a way as to make your survival mean something,” Leliana offered. She knew plenty about the guilt he was living with, and the difficulty of finding a way to feel as though one’s life was worth sustaining.

“How?”

She shook her head. “That you have to discover for yourself. No one can tell you how to make meaning where there is none.”

“I’ll give it some thought, then.” He gazed off across the tops of the buildings, the last rays of the setting sun across his cheek. He made quite a picturesque image, Leliana thought. Then he climbed to the top of the railing, grasped the edge of the roof, and casually, silently, lifted himself up onto it and was gone, leaving Leliana to wonder what possible purpose the Maker had had in putting another damaged Grey Warden in her path.


	22. Red Lyrium and Blue

_“Hawke, come on. Let’s get you home.”_

_“No. Anywhere but there. I can’t … It’s so empty, Varric. It echoes.” She shook her head at him. “Don’t take me to a place that echoes. Tell me a story.”_

_“All right, if you promise to drink this.” He put a cup of coffee on the table in front of her._

_She wrinkled her nose at it, but took a sip anyway. Corff made terrible coffee, which was probably why it worked so well as a sobering agent. No one wanted to have to drink more than one cup._

_“Which story?” Varric asked her._

_“Tell me … about Bianca.”_

_“Now, Hawke, you know I can’t.”_

_“Why can’t you? Are you under a spell? Is there a curse on the story?”_

_“What, and my tongue shrivels up and falls off if I talk? I think I’ve told you too many stories.” He chuckled._

_“Then at least tell me why you can’t speak of it.”_

_He hesitated, looking at her across the table. “Because … well, it’s a long story.”_

_“Yes, and one you won’t tell. All I’m asking is why you won’t tell it.”_

_“For safety, all right?”_

_“Whose safety?”_

_“Oh, no, you don’t. I told you why I won’t tell, but beyond that you’ll just have to wait and wonder like everyone else.”_

_“Will you tell me someday?”_

_“Maybe.”_

_“You’re mean, Varric.” Lilias pouted at him._

_“Believe it or not, Hawke, I’ve heard that one before.”_

Lilias frowned at the note in her hand in Varric’s ornate script, asking her to come up to his room. She hadn’t been to his room since the Hanged Man, and what a long time ago that seemed. Here in Skyhold, he mostly held court in the main hall, and kept to himself otherwise far more than she remembered him doing in Kirkwall. 

He was a darker man now than he used to be—what he had seen in Kirkwall and after, the Conclave, the red lyrium, slowly but surely they were changing him. Look how he had been drawn into the Inquisition after all this time swearing that he was done doing his bit to save the world, all his talk about putting his feet up and writing his way into a cushy retirement. But here he was.

At least Thule seemed to understand what a treasure he had in Varric. Lilias had watched the two of them bantering, the genuine friendship that appeared to lie between them, and had been glad for her friend that he had landed here, in the company of someone who valued him.

She knocked on his door.

“Who is it?” His voice was unusually hard and suspicious, and Lilias’s eyebrows flew up at the sound.

“It’s me, Varric. Just like you asked.”

“Are you alone?”

“Who would be with me?” she asked bitterly.

“Daisy?”

“Oh. No, she’s in the library.”

“She would be.” Finally he opened the door, just enough to poke his head out and peer suspiciously up and down the hallway.

From within the room, a woman’s voice said lazily, “Now, Varric, I told you, no one knows I’m here.”

“Yeah, you said that.” At last he looked at Lilias. “Come on in.”

Inside the room, lounging in Varric’s bed, wearing one of his tunics and it looked like nothing else, was a female dwarf, who was smirking at Lilias in a way that immediately put her hackles up.

“Uh … Hawke, this is, um … Bianca.”

Lilias turned to stare at him. “Bianca Bianca?”

“Actually, it’s Bianca Davri,” drawled the owner of that name. “You must be the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Lilias Hawke. I haven’t been champion of anything in quite some time.”

“Yes, I suppose that's true.” Bianca got to her feet, moving toward Lilias with a lithe grace she envied. “Varric worries too much.”

“He’s had reason to, the last few years.”

Bianca nodded. “So I’ve heard.”

“He told you?”

“He tells me everything.”

The two women stared at each other. Lilias had imagined once or twice what it might be like to meet Varric’s famous Bianca, but it had never occurred to her that it would be a combative experience. She had thought they would bond over their mutual love for Varric, but Bianca seemed to feel … threatened? No. She wanted to assert ownership, to stake a claim on him, but she wasn’t threatened by Lilias in the least. Well, Lilias determined, she wouldn’t be threatened, either. After all, where had this cocky little dwarf been all that time in Kirkwall? Not at Varric’s side when he needed her, that was for sure.

“So you’ve been friends a long time, then,” she said to Bianca.

“Everyone’s a friend of Varric’s.” Bianca smiled at him, running a finger down his arm. “You have met him, haven’t you?”

“Quite a few times, yes.”

Varric was looking between the two of them with concern. “Maybe we should … get down to business.”

“There’s business? I thought this was merely about the pleasure of finally meeting someone I’ve heard so much about,” Lilias said.

Bianca smiled. “You’ve heard nothing at all about me. I know Varric.”

“You might be surprised.”

“Not a chance.”

“Anyway,” Varric put in, “Bianca came to Skyhold because she’s got a lead on where Corypheus got his red lyrium.”

“She does?” Lilias frowned at him. “Why are you talking to me instead of to the Inquisitor?”

“Look, Hawke, we started all this. We need to finish it.”

“Yes, we do.” Lilias sighed. “Tell me.”

Bianca hopped onto the end of the bed. Lilias took the one human-sized chair Varric kept in his chambers, and Varric paced back and forth between Bianca the dwarf and Bianca the crossbow.

“The red lyrium is coming from Bartrand’s Folly, the thaig Varric found.”

“How is that possible? No one knew about that place but us!”

“It’s hard to say. The other people we hired could have said something—“

“The useless muscle? I’m not sure any of them could read a map.”

“Scoff all you like, but even the dumbest guy can have a surprisingly good memory when treasure’s involved. Or Bartrand could have blabbed enough to someone to get them started on their way.”

That sounded more plausible. Or it would have, if Varric hadn’t looked so worried, and been so careful to avoid her eyes.

Lilias looked at Bianca instead. “How do you know?”

“I found a Deep Roads entrance where strange humans were carting out red lyrium. It was crawling with them, like ants. Or deepstalkers.”

“In the Free Marches?”

“No. In Ferelden.”

“That’s an awfully long way from the thaig,” Lilias said skeptically. “That was in the Free Marches.”

Bianca laughed, rather smugly, Lilias thought. “The thaig is actually in Orlais; you just lost track of how far you traveled because the Deep Roads offer you a straight line rather than having to go around the surface obstacles. The entrance is in Ferelden, a place called the Hinterlands.”

Lilias tried to put aside her turmoil and her grief and her instinctive dislike of this woman who seemed to think she owned Varric and think like the Champion of Kirkwall. “Do we think this is the only entrance they’re using to get to the thaig?”

“Navigating the Deep Roads isn’t like the surface, like I said. Between the shortage of accurate maps, the cave-ins, the darkspawn, the lava floods … It’s a miracle they found one entrance. I doubt they’ve managed to find more than one. And why should they?” Bianca shrugged. “When the one they found is working for them just fine.”

“Miracle,” Varric muttered. “I can think of less positive words.”

“Stop beating yourself up over this,” Bianca told him. “It’s not your fault!”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“We need to shut this down,” Lilias said decisively. “We’ll have to talk to the Inquisitor.”

Varric looked at Bianca. “Don’t worry, we’ll leave your name out of it.”

“It’s fine. I trust you.” They shared a look for a moment, a look that told Lilias that these two had a long history and a deep connection. She tried to forgive Bianca for … well, for not being what Lilias had imagined she would be. “I’ll keep an eye on their operation until you and the Inquisitor can come look into it. If you’re going to shut it down, I’m coming to help.”

“Are you sure?” Varric went to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. They had both entirely forgotten Lilias, who got to her feet and tiptoed from the room.

Before the door closed behind her, she heard Bianca say, “I’m here to help, no matter what it takes.”

She hoped it was true.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen knelt in front of Andraste. He wanted to pray to her, to ask her for the strength to endure that he so needed, but the words wouldn’t come. The Inquisitor and Cassandra were so certain of themselves, so certain of him, but what could they really know? Neither of them had ever taken lyrium, much less tried to give it up. Cullen knew very few who had, and most of them had gone mad and died. He wished he understood why he hadn’t; if he could understand that, perhaps that would give him the strength.

He heard a noise behind him and turned to see Dagna standing there. “Copper for your thoughts.”

“Don’t waste your money.”

“On you? What better use could I have for it?” She came toward him, kneeling down in her own turn, although Cullen didn’t believe she followed Andrastean beliefs. “If I could relieve your troubles, I would consider any sum a bargain,” Dagna said softly. 

Cullen glanced at her, frowning. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“Why not? Cullen, let me help you.”

“You can’t.” He looked down at his hands, noticing the small tremors that shook his fingers. “No one can.”

“That’s impossible. There’s help for every problem, if you just know where to look. And you have no idea what I’m capable of.” She made the statement simply, and without pride.

“Perhaps not. You understand lyrium, I imagine.”

“Better than almost anyone alive.” Again, it was a statement of fact. And the truth—there was a reason she had been chosen to be the Inquisition’s Arcanist, and it wasn’t just because Cullen had recommended her. “Let me take some of your blood and study it.”

Cullen shifted, his mind immediately flying to blood magic, to the Tower, to the demons—

“Not like that,” Dagna said softly. She put a hand on his arm, turning to look at him earnestly. “There’s no magic in it, Cullen. No magic. Just … science. I know many look on science as being akin to magic, but you are far too intelligent for that. Let me study your blood and see if I can find a way to ease the symptoms.”

“Surely you have other things to do.”

She held his gaze. “There is nothing more important than you are. Not to me.” In the depths of her green eyes, he saw something he had never seen before—that this dwarf at his side, whose cheer and good humor had gotten him through so many long nights, was a woman, with a woman’s feelings. Cullen felt like a heel for never having seen her that way before, and for having missed somehow the fact that her feelings for him were not comradely. He shivered … and not from the lyrium this time, but from an awakened awareness of her.

He withdrew his arm from underneath her fingertips before he could allow the surprise of the moment to lead him into suggesting things he was far from sure he felt. He was no good for any woman, anyway, much less someone as innocent and trusting as Dagna. 

“Cullen?” There was uncertainty in her voice—she had to know what she had revealed, and she was nervous, afraid, of his reaction.

“I would very much appreciate your help,” he told her. “Thank you for the offer. For … being here.”

“Always.” She got up, and in a different voice, her work voice, she said, “Come to the Undercroft in the morning, before you’ve eaten or drunk anything, and I’ll get started.”

And she left him there, at the feet of Andraste, still speechless, but for an entirely different reason.


	23. A Chance to Try

_His fingers were burning. At least, that’s what it felt like. Thule tried to pull his hands back, but something heavy bound them. His toes were burning, too, he realized, as consciousness began to settle heavily on him, like a pall of smoke. Or an avalanche._

_Avalanche._

_He twitched, trying to draw his feet away from the flames that were burning them alive. Then soothing blessed coolness washed over his extremities and a wave of drowsiness closed over his head. He was asleep again in moments._

_The next time he woke, he recognized the sensations as the tingling of circulation returning to frozen hands and feet. In that long trek through the snow, he had resigned himself to losing some toes to frostbite; he hoped that keeping his hands under his arms as much as possible had saved his fingers. Experimentally, he tried wiggling them, but they seemed to be bound somehow._

_He opened his eyes._

_“Finally, you are awake,” said a voice next to him, and he turned his head on the pillow._

_“C-Cassandra?”_

_Her face came into view in the light of the single candle, her mouth set in its usual stern lines, but her eyes were soft. A warmth filled him at the sight of her; he felt better just knowing she was there. “I wondered how long you would sleep.”_

_“How long has it been?”_

_“Since we found you in the snow? Nearly a day.”_

_Thule cleared his throat. “How … how bad is it?”_

_“You will recover.”_

_“No, I mean—my fingers. Did I lose any?” He struggled to sit up in his alarm, and Cassandra placed a firm hand on his chest._

_She glared at him. “You will lie still or I will call Dorian to put you to sleep again.”_

_Thule settled back under the blankets. “Fingers,” he reminded her._

_“All ten.” He recoiled in horror, and her eyes widened. “No, no, you still have all ten. Dorian thinks you may lose a toe, but your fingers are fine.”_

_He could breathe again now, and he did so, slowly, saying a silent prayer of thankfulness to the Maker._

_“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”_

_“No, that’s all right.” He looked at her more closely, noting how drawn her face looked, and the deep shadows under her eyes. “Have you slept at all?”_

_“Not since we escaped from Haven. I—you should not have stayed behind.”_

_Thule smiled. “I don’t run as fast as the rest of you. Makes me easier to catch.”_

_“Do not make jokes! It wasn’t funny.”_

_“I know. I was there, not laughing, remember?”_

_“Do you wish to talk about it?”_

_“Not right at the moment. How is the rest of the Inquisition?”_

_“Tired. Cold. Grateful. Frightened. Hungry.”_

_“All of those at once?” Thule smiled._

_“You are still making jokes.”_

_“It’s a funny world.”_

_“That is what Varric says.” Her voice crackled with disapproval._

_“Maybe it’s a dwarf thing.”_

_“Perhaps.”_

_He looked at her, the candlelight flickering over her face, illuminating her strong cheekbones and the curve of her lips and the line of her jaw. “I want to make you laugh,” he told her, and wasn’t sure which of them blushed harder. What was he thinking, blurting something like that out to her? Maybe she would think of it as the ravings of a man who had nearly frozen to death._

_Stiffly, she said, “I am not given to laughter.”_

_He wondered what she was given to. Passion? Love? Fierce devotion, that he knew, to the Chantry she had served for so much of her life; an intensity in combat that made her formidable to foe and friend alike; and occasionally, if you looked very closely—which he had—hints of uncertainty that said she, too, wondered what else she might be made for._

_“That just makes it that much more of a challenge, doesn’t it?”_

_“As long as you are alive to take on that challenge, I will do my best not to make it any harder than it must be,” Cassandra promised, and that softness was back in her eyes, making Thule’s heart flip over in his chest at the sudden thought that maybe, just maybe, she had been struck by the same bolt of lightning he had. “You should rest,” she added. “Save your strength for healing.”_

_“Will you stay?” he asked her, and felt bad about it the moment he said it, seeing the dark circles under her eyes._

_But she was already nodding. “I will.”_

_He should tell her to go and get some rest, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of this warm circle of light, alone with her. Thule blinked sleepily. “You have never looked more beautiful,” he whispered._

_“Do not be foolish,” Cassandra said softly. She was leaning over him, and if he was at full health he would have been kissing her right now. “And how would you know?”_

_Thule wanted to tell her that he knew how she looked in every light, but his eyes were heavy with sleep, and he couldn’t hold the thread of the thought. As he drifted away, he could feel her hand steal out and close over his bandaged one, and he fell asleep smiling._

Thule paced the hall, oblivious to the noise around him. He had to have a meeting later with a prominent Orlesian noble to discuss the particulars of his invitation to the Empress’s ball—procured under the auspices of Grand Duke Gaspard, which was a calculated risk, as Gaspard and Celene were at war over the throne—and he had no idea what to say. His lips moved slightly as he tried to anticipate the questions and challenges that might be thrown at him. Josephine would be there, but this meeting would determine Thule’s own fitness to become a player in the grand Game of Orlais, and he was deeply afraid he was going be a complete failure.

He felt a light tap on his shoulder. Turning, to his surprise he saw Cassandra there. That she, of all people, had managed to sneak up on him said a great deal about how worried he was. She gestured to him to follow her outside, into the gardens, and he followed, burning with curiosity. It must have to do with the Seekers, or Inquisition business. Cassandra was too agitated for anything else.

She led him up the steps and out onto the balcony that overlooked the garden, stopping there to look at him. “I was hoping … can we speak privately?”

Thule looked around, seeing no one nearby. “Aren’t we already?”

“Right.” Cassandra walked a few steps further, at her usual brisk pace, and Thule followed her. As if to herself, she added, “Of course we are.” Then she stopped, and without looking at him, she said, “The flirting.”

His heart thudded in his chest, momentarily cutting off his breathing. 

When he didn’t respond, Cassandra continued hesitantly, “With me. I’ve … noticed it. Unless … unless it is my imagination, which is entirely possible …”

Thule found it utterly adorable that she had any question. She must be the only person in Skyhold who wasn’t completely certain that he was flirting with her as hard as he could. “No, it’s definitely not your imagination. Does it make you uncomfortable? I could stop.” Maker, he hoped she didn’t want him to stop. He wasn’t really all that sure that he could.

She frowned at him, as though the confirmation was not at all what she had expected. “You cannot court me,” she said in indignation. “If that is your intention. It—it is impossible!”

His heart sank. Of course. Because he was a dwarf, and she was a princess, and it had been ridiculous from the start. “Why?” he asked in a whisper. “Why must it be impossible?” Much as it would hurt, he needed to hear it from her or he would never be able to let go of the idea of her, the fantasy and hope he had treasured all this time.

“That should be obvious,” she said, almost coldly, and Thule found himself shamefully near to tears.

“It’s … because I’m a dwarf, isn’t it?”

“What? No! No, of course not. Why would such a thought ever occur to you?”

He frowned, not understanding. “Then what else could it be?”

“You of all people—you cannot possibly intend to properly court me.”

The light dawned. Of course. Cassandra the romantic, Cassandra who read Varric’s books and clutched their stories to her heart in secret—Cassandra wanted to be wooed, she wanted the formalities of the romances she read, and Thule readily admitted that he didn’t exactly seem the type to get down on his knees and kiss a woman’s hand. Not that he would have to get down on his knees to kiss her hand, but if he was reading this right, that didn’t seem to be the issue, much to his relief. He looked up at her, meeting her grey eyes squarely. “Is that what you want?”

“No.” The answer came quickly. She paused, looking at him, and then she walked by, leaving him standing there, wondering what in the Maker’s name had just happened here, and whether all his hopes had just been completely dashed, or if he was missing something.

The door closed behind her, and Thule walked off, trying to compose himself and get his mind back on the Orlesian nobleman. Then he heard the door open again, Cassandra’s firm footsteps approaching, and he turned to look at her. 

She stopped in front of him, swallowing hard, the words coming from her with difficulty. “I take it back. That … that _is_ what I want. I—”

She looked so distressed, trying to come out and say what was in her heart. Thule reached for her hand. “You can tell me. I would … I would never hurt you.”

Cassandra swallowed again, and then the words came forth in a tumble. “I want a man who sweeps me off my feet, who gives me flowers and reads me poetry by candlelight. I want the ideal.” She looked down at him, her eyes searching his face. “I know what you see: I am a warrior. I am blunt and difficult and self-righteous. But my heart lies beneath all that. It yearns for the things I cannot have. I … just don’t know if you … You are not exactly … I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be …”

“I understand. I’m a rogue—I’m sneaky and snarky and difficult to pin down.” He smiled. “Don’t you think just maybe I have a heart that lies beneath all that as well?”

“I … yes. I mean, I hope so.” She flushed, glancing away, as if she felt she had said too much. “But you are also the Inquisitor and the Herald of Andraste! I cannot ask you to take time away from what is important to … woo me.”

“Is there anything more important?” he asked, holding her fingers when she would have drawn them from his grasp. “Cassandra. I can be that man. Won’t you even give me a chance to try?”

She wanted to believe him, he could see that in her eyes, so open and vulnerable for once. “The world hinges on our actions, Inquisitor. We face death at every turn.”

“All the more reason to stop every once in a while to face life … lest we forget what it is that we face death for.”

“That … was poetic.”

Thule grinned at her. “See? I can do it. I … Cassandra—“

She cut him off, shaking her head and tearing her hand from his grasp. “No. It was foolish to speak to you of this. There is no time, and many more important tasks that lie ahead of us.”

Turning, she strode off, not looking back. Thule watched her go. Now that he knew what she wanted, he was more determined than ever to be it. He knew she liked him—they got along, they trusted each other—and he was certain he could find a way to woo her that she would like. Maybe the Orlesian noble would have some ideas.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Lilias stood outside the Haven’s Rest, hesitating. Varric and Merrill had convinced her to promise to meet them there, but while she appreciated their attempt to get her out of her room and back out into the world, she wasn’t sure she was ready for … quite this much of the world. And if she went in there, the chances were good she might run into—

“Um, hi.”

Alistair. Right behind her. Lilias cursed inwardly as she turned around and pasted a fake smile on her face. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“It’s a small keep. Easy to run into old friends.”

“Old friends?” she echoed, raising her eyebrows.

“Weren’t we?”

“No! Of course we weren’t! We were—“ But she didn’t want to get into that.

“Yes. Yes, we were.” His eyes were on her, all dark and smoky and filled with promise.

_Oh, snap out of it, Lilias!_ she said to herself. That was all over with a long time ago. She had put it behind her. But as he moved closer to her, she didn’t feel as though it was behind her. She felt that it was still right here in front of her, so close she could reach out and …

He took her hand, and she watched with some disbelief as she didn’t pull it back. “I don’t think I’ve ever fully apologized for being such a … Well, you can use your own words. No doubt you have,” Alistair said, with that disarming smile meant to make a person forget how angry they were at him. And she was angry. He had been a … well, many things. Some of them very painful.

“And?” she said noncommittally.

“And … Lilias.”

“Yes?” He had used her name. Not Hawke, or Champion, or … The memory flashed through her mind, of him muttering the name of the wrong Amell in a voice husky with passion, breathing it into her ears, and Lilias stiffened. “What?” she snapped.

“I was a fool. I clung to—I held on to something I should have let go, for far too long. And … I want to let it go, Lilias, I do.” He tugged her slightly closer to him, and she went, the sincerity in his voice moving her feet for her. “I want to start over again, as if … as if we had just met. Can we start over? Can you let me try?”

His hand was cupping the side of her face, and it was all so sweet and warm that Lilias could barely breathe. But it was also … fast. Too fast. Too unexpected. And … Bethany. Between them, they had left Bethany behind. She pushed away from him, seeing the flash of hurt in his eyes. 

“Alistair. I—I want to believe you. I want to give us another chance, I really do. But … I’ve lost track of who I am. I’ve lost everything. I can’t just … If I’m not who I used to be, then where do we start? If I don’t know who I am then how can I be with … anyone? Do you—do you understand?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, nodding, his eyes on her with something that looked like he really did understand. “Between you and me, I don’t know who I am, either. I’ve been pretending to be something I’m not for a really long time, and now …” He shook his head, a spasm of pain crossing his face. “How about this—how about I help you figure out who you are, and you help me figure out who I am, and maybe when we come out the other end, we’ll … know who we are together?”

It felt to Lilias as though the world was standing still, as though even the snowflakes falling softly around them had ceased to fall and were hanging suspended in the air. She looked at Alistair, this man whom she had cursed and dreamed of and fantasized about and longed for and feared and desired for such a long time, and she knew that she wanted that new chance, that sense of understanding she felt when she was with him, that connection they had shared almost from the beginning, that sense of safety. “All right,” she said softly. “Let’s try it.”

His smile lit up the night, setting the snowflakes in motion again.


	24. The Road to the Winter Palace

Varric closed the door and leaned back against it, sighing. “That was a close shave.”

“Don’t you dare.” Bianca smiled at him. “I like your stubble just the way it is.”

He chuckled. “No, I meant talking Stones out of making me go to the Winter Palace.”

“Why shouldn’t you go?”

“Two words: Merchants’ Guild. Oh, and a third—publishers. My publishers insist that I go over worse in Orlais than Fereldan lamb and pea stew. In fact, they implied that if I step foot among the Orlesian nobility, they might throw some at me.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Bianca stretched luxuriously. “How did you score such a nice bed, anyway?”

“Ruffles. She insisted Stones have the best dwarf-size furniture there was, something about a happy Inquisitor being a charming Inquisitor. It wasn’t hard to convince her to order some extra for the other dwarves around.” Responding to Bianca’s invitingly crooked finger, he climbed on the bed, crawling across to her. “And what would you know about people’s reactions to my books anyway? You’ve never read any.”

“Well, no, that’s true,” Bianca conceded. One of her hands trailed down through his chest hair to the buckle of his belt. “But I listen to what people say about them. I like that your books are so well-received.”

“Do you?” He held himself above her while she disrobed him. “That’s generous of you.”

“Of course.” She cupped his face in her hands. “You’re mine, Varric Tethras, and don’t you forget it.”

With her mouth on his, her hands rediscovering familiar places, he didn’t think it was possible for him ever to forget. He settled on top of her, kissing her back with fervor. All too soon she would stop letting him talk her into staying and be off to keep an eye on the thaig, but for just this moment she was his, too, and he intended to take full advantage of it.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The familiar worn satchel sat open on the bed, ready for her to throw her clothes into it, such as she had. It had been a long time since Lilias had worn clothes suitable for a formal ball; in fact, she had never really enjoyed the experience, preferring comfort over style in every case. She had tried to convince Alistair, and then Thule, that she shouldn’t even be coming along with the Inquisition’s party to Halamshiral, that their association with the disgraced and controversial Champion of Kirkwall was hardly something to flaunt. Many there were likely to believe everything that had happened was her fault, from the destruction of Kirkwall’s Chantry to the Conclave, and she wasn’t so sure they were wrong. Poor Anders. Surely there was some way she could have saved him, helped him … even if that had meant killing him, maybe that would have been better for everyone.

Presented with that argument, Thule had grinned his charming grin, the one Lilias suspected had gotten a lot of women to do what he wanted, and said he was far more controversial than she was, and wouldn’t it be nice if he had someone around who could take the pressure off him. Alistair had merely looked at her with eyes like the mabari pup Carver had once begged for that they couldn’t afford, and how could Lilias turn him down?

Well, she could have. She should have, she told herself, frowning at her image in the glass. This whole idea of his that they should start over was crazy. He said things had changed, but her cousin’s name was practically branded on his forehead, not to mention on the brain beneath it … and the heart. That hadn’t changed, no matter how much he protested, and Lilias wanted even less than before to be her cousin’s stand-in. When she wasn’t even sure who she was anymore, how could she compete with the image of Thedas’s most perfect woman?

Sometimes she wished that she had a picture of Leyden, that she had met her cousin, if only once, so she could have seen the similarity between them for herself. There had been times, in those short, dizzying weeks in Kirkwall, when she had talked to her reflection in the mirror as if it was Leyden, trapped there in some world beyond the looking glass, making the case for why Leyden should remove her hooks from Alistair and leave him to find new happiness … but she had never fully convinced herself, much less the shade of her famous cousin.

Could she now? She frowned at the reflection, the thin face and the dark circles under the blue eyes. If she couldn’t make him forget Leyden in the bloom of her youth and confidence, how was she ever going to manage it now?  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“These uniforms do not flatter anyone. You know that, I presume?” Leliana frowned at her friend, who was lying on her stomach across Leliana’s bed.

“Perhaps not,” Josephine conceded, “but we will present a unified front. Besides, there was no time, not to find a tailor who could fit everyone.”

“At least the Inquisitor has decided not to ask the Iron Bull to accompany us. Although I must admit that watching those shoulders strain the fabric of his jacket might have been worth it.” The two women exchanged a wicked grin.

“That may be just what you need, my friend,” Josephine observed.

“I’ve considered it, but …” Leliana thought of Bethany. “I am sadly not tempted.”

“I understand. I truly do. But spending your life alone is hardly the answer, either.”

“Look who’s talking, Josie! When was the last time you looked longingly at someone?”

Josephine sighed. “Longer ago than I care to admit. However, that may be changing.” She flushed slightly.

“The letter from your mother? You aren’t considering this arranged marriage, are you?”

“I have agreed to meet Lord Otranto, yes. I understand he will be at the ball.”

“Ah.” The uniforms made even more sense, now. Josie didn’t want to look her best for this man her mother wished her to marry; she was testing him.

“Don’t give me that look, Leliana! I have a duty—“

“To your family, yes. And your duty to yourself?”

Josephine got up and came across the room to Leliana, looking her square in the eye. “Where is your duty to yourself, my friend? You cannot allow the Inquisition to consume all that you are, or your role here to harden you into something that is not you.”

She held her friend’s gaze as long as she could, then looked down, blinking back a hot sting of tears. “You’re right, Josie. I know you’re right. But … It is not as easy as you make it sound.”

Josephine smiled. “You know yourself best, obviously,” she said in a tone that made that claim sound doubtful. “I should go; I have uniforms to distribute and I am arranging the horses for tomorrow morning’s departure. Ah, perhaps you have not yet been informed—it has been decided to take advantage of our partnership with the Grey Wardens by bringing a representative along with us.”

“Oh?” Leliana tried not to sound interested; she could see exactly where Josie was going with this, and didn’t want to take the bait like a kitten after string.

“I believe his name is Nathaniel Howe.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Leliana said noncommittally, wondering how exactly Josephine knew about their talk on the battlements. Sometimes she thought her friend ought to have been the spymaster.

“Have you now?” Eyes twinkling, Josephine ducked out of the room, leaving Leliana shaking her head, but with a smile on her face. She did love the Game, after all, and playing it while avoiding Josie’s clever attempts to trap her into bed with an attractive Grey Warden did sound like an entertaining way to stretch her skills. Yes, perhaps this would be an enjoyable journey after all.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen’s packing job went smoothly. He was pleased with the new uniforms, although he felt they would all be fairly conspicuous in the bright red jackets. Still, surely Leliana had already considered that the Inquisitor might need to go unnoticed at times and planned for it … and after all, Thule had been part of the Carta for many years, so no doubt he knew well enough how to slip through a crowd.

He rolled a shirt efficiently, tucking it into his open valise, and then wrapped a bottle of the pomade he used on his hair in a strip of linen, so it wouldn’t break, and tucked it in as well. Foolish vanity, no doubt, but on the other hand, his unruly curls did have a tendency to make him look too young for his job when he left them alone.

A knock sounded on his office door, and he went to the edge of his loft and called out, “Enter!”, looking down.

A familiar small figure came in, red hair parted and drawn back in a hasty bun secured by a quill. Cullen smiled.

Dagna was looking around in confusion, and he said, “Up here,” before climbing down the ladder.

She flushed slightly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, not at all. I was just packing, preparing for the journey to Orlais.”

“Oh. Actually, that’s why I came.” She proffered a small package.

“What is this?” Cullen took it from her, carefully unwrapping the paper. He found a vial of a clear liquid, and he frowned at it, then at Dagna. 

“It’s … for you. I made it up after I analyzed your blood. If you feel the pains, from the lyrium …”

He frowned a bit harder at the vial. “Dagna. I have no desire to replace my reliance on the lyrium with a reliance on another substance.”

“No, of course you don’t! This isn’t to rely on, only to help with the symptoms. Only one drop, mixed in with water—nothing alcoholic, no tea—and it should stop the pains. It can’t help with the—the cravings, but at least you won’t have to worry about pain keeping you from your duties.”

“I see.” Cullen looked down at her. “I’m sorry. I should not have jumped to conclusions.”

“I wasn’t clear.” She swallowed, and he felt badly seeing how nervous she seemed. He wondered if she regretted letting him see how she felt. He was flattered, of course, but he was hardly the kind of man any woman should be involved with—certainly not with the need for the lyrium still so strong in him, not when he felt the weakness in himself, the fallibility, the vulnerability to the sibilant whispers of the demons in his dreams, every day. 

“You shouldn’t have to be,” he told her gently. “Above all, in the past years, you of all people have earned my trust, over and over. Thank you for this. I appreciate it.”

“My pleasure, you know that.” Dagna hesitated, then hastily she added, “Safe travels,” and hurried from the room.

Cullen closed his fingers around the vial, filled with hope that at last he had something with which to combat at least part of his troubles, and with a fluttering of the stomach he didn’t dare consider too thoroughly.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The morning dawned cool and bright. The horses for the Inquisition’s party were saddled and bridled, lined up ready to be mounted, with Horsemaster Dennet fussing about them.

Alistair smiled, watching the old man, seeing how much he cared for the animals and how little use he had for the people who were to ride them. Teagan was still steaming that the Inquisition had spirited Dennet away right out from under his nose, but it was clear the man enjoyed being where he was, and the animals were in beautiful condition, especially considering the lack of land around Skyhold for exercise and the difficulty of getting enough fodder to keep them healthy and well-fed up the mountain roads.

His own horse was ready, and he patted it affectionately on the rump. “Everything ready, Panos?” he asked his captain of the guard, who had insisted on accompanying him to Halamshiral.

“Yes, sire. Are—“ Panos hesitated.

“Speak, man. I hate it when people don’t ask me questions they clearly think I need to be asked but which they think will just make me upset.”

Panos frowned, trying to get through that tangle of grammar, and Alistair wished him good luck with it. He kept hoping age would make it easier to put his thoughts together, but so far there was no sign of such an improvement. “Are you certain this journey is a good idea? You aren’t exactly Empress Celene’s favorite person.”

“What, you mean because she proposed a ‘suitable union’ and I declined to allow Orlais to buy its way into Ferelden through my bed? I’m sure that’s all in a day’s work for an experienced head of state.”

“Yes, sire.” Panos turned away to check on his own horse, clearly not convinced of anything but the futility of continuing the discussion.

Alistair wasn’t interested anyway, because Lilias had appeared at the top of the stairs leading down from the main keep. She was saying good-bye to Merrill, who was staying on at Skyhold. Alistair thought it was a good sign that Lilias was willing to make the journey without Merrill, who seemed to act for her much as a security blanket did a small child. She was coming down the stairs toward him now, and he met her at the bottom, smiling, pleased to see a similar smile stretching her wide mouth and lighting her blue eyes. “Fine day for a ride, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“I’m … glad we’re going together.”

A shadow crossed her eyes, and for a moment he thought she would protest his use of the word together. Then she gathered herself with a visible effort and dispelled the shadow. “I am, too. Alistair?”

“Yes?”

“If …” Lilias took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, and he thought how very beautiful she was, how strong. “If you screw this up and hurt me again, I will …”

He caught her hand, holding it tightly in his. “You won’t have to. I won’t. I promise.”

She looked suspicious, but she nodded, and she left her hand in his as he led her to her horse and helped her onto it.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
There was nothing more irritating about being the Inquisitor than traveling, Thule thought crossly. His choices for travel were either to ride a standard-sized horse and look like a foolish child in a specially designed saddle on top of an animal far, far bigger than he was … or to ride a pony and be constantly shouting up at everyone—and still look like a foolish child.

For this trip, he had opted for the pony, preferring the slightly greater dignity of riding an animal properly sized to his stature, but amidst all the humans he felt ridiculously tiny. He very much regretted having been talked into letting Varric stay behind. At the very least, maybe he should have prevailed on Harding to come along. He scolded himself for his lack of forethought.

Another giant horse came alongside his, and he looked up, seeing Cassandra next to him. Of all people, to have her see him this way … She would never take seriously any attempts to woo her now.

As if she had read his mind, she looked down at him and said, “Inquisitor.”

“Thule,” he reminded her, an edge to his voice that he couldn’t quite hide.

“Thule,” she said in the same tone. “I … cannot stop thinking of our earlier discussion.”

He couldn’t, either, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue it right now.

“You don’t … actually intend to go through with courting me, do you?”

“Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?” he asked, more sharply than he’d intended. “Is it so unbelievable that I might want to?”

She frowned. “I have heard … stories. Of your … prowess.”

“Oh.” A smile came to his face unbidden. He was rather proud of that well- (and hard-) earned reputation. 

“And of your treatment of the girls afterward.”

“Just because I never felt the need to settle down before—“

Cassandra’s eyes widened. “Do you now?” 

He realized what he had said, and was surprised that he didn’t want to take it back. “I don’t not want to.”

“That is hardly a ringing endorsement.”

“We’re hardly in a place where I would want to unveil my innermost thoughts, either,” he pointed out. “Is that all, my reputation?”

“I … no, that is not all. I also thought—you have so much else to occupy your energies …”

He caught her eye, not an easy feat given the difference in the size of their animals and the need to actually guide his pony. “You let me worry about my energies.”

She heard the double entendre, not that he’d tried too hard to hide it. Her cheeks pinkened a little, and he wondered what she would look like in the full height of her … energies. Then he drew his thoughts off that particular topic, since going too far in that direction would make spending the rest of the day on this pony even more uncomfortable than it was already going to be.

In a low voice, Cassandra said, “It wasn’t meant to be a challenge! You needn’t do it simply because I suggested you could not.”

“Well, now I do.” His mood was definitely improving; Cassandra had that effect on him. He grinned at her. “Besides, I happen to like a challenge.”

“You are impossible.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

She sighed heavily. “You enjoy making things complicated, don’t you?”

“I’ve been told that before, too.” He reached for her hand, another difficult feat, and caught the tips of her fingers in his. “It’s very simple, Cassandra. In these past months, I’ve learned to care for you.”

“I … believe you,” she said hesitantly, “yet …”

“You don’t sound like you believe me.”

“It is … difficult. I have never told anyone …”

“That under that taciturn shell beats a romantic heart? That book you were reading told me that.”

“Yes, but … more than that. I have never … asked anyone …”

He tightened his grip on her fingers. “I know you haven’t. I know what you’ve trusted me with. I’m not going to hurt you, Cassandra.”

She looked down at him skeptically, drawing her hand away. “Aren’t you? We shall see.” She spurred her horse ahead.

Thule sat his pony more easily, watching her go. He supposed he should question these feelings he had for her, that were so unlike what he had felt for any woman before. But … she was Cassandra. She was magnificent, so strong and proud and soft and thoughtful and intelligent and brave and … lonely. He was all those things, too, and the similarities between them called to him, drawing him to her side again and again. He wanted her, all of her. What was to question about that?


	25. Agendas

The Inquisition party assembled at a mansion near the palace. It was owned by a friend of Josephine’s, who had been quietly persuaded to lend it to the Inquisition for the occasion. Leliana had been of two minds about staying off of the palace grounds. On the one hand, it lent them more privacy. On the other, it kept them necessarily separated from the other guests and limited the amount of mingling they could do.

Naturally, she already had quite a few operatives working at the palace, and Sera, who had come along for the journey, had slipped out as soon as they arrived to send messages to some of her "friends”. While the elf’s methods were entirely different from her own, Leliana couldn’t help appreciating the ingenuity of the plan—multiple fail-safes, no one ever knew who the other friends were, and organizing those who were all too easily overlooked and had reason to want to get back at those who did the overlooking was a clever idea.

She wanted more hooks, however. The Game required as much information as possible. And while the Inquisitor was well-trained in sneaking, and had a natural charm that would serve him well, he would be walking into the Winter Palace already at a disadvantage because he was a dwarf, and the Orlesian nobility were in a communal state of disbelief that Andraste’s Herald could possibly be a dwarf. Additionally, Thule had never been trained in the Game, or in the intrigues of nobility outside Orlais to begin with. Leliana and Josephine had worked with him as much as they could, given the limitations of time and the numerous other responsibilities the Inquisitor bore, but he would need all the help he could get.

Leliana had hopes that Alistair would prove to be a distraction. She wasn’t sure if he knew that he had been brought along to act as a shiny irritant for Celene—and that the same applied to the former Champion of Kirkwall, and to a lesser extent to Cassandra, with her Pentaghast lineage, and to Vivienne … although the mage no doubt had agendas of her own, which Leliana would have to anticipate and work around.

The challenges of the days to come had her blood humming in excitement. This was the arena in which she had first whet her blade, and she was ready to test her mettle against it once more.  
It was with that excitement thrumming in the back of her mind that she knocked on a door to set the last piece of her plan in motion. “One moment,” called the voice on the other side. She couldn’t hear his steps, and so it seemed that the door opened of its own accord. Nathaniel Howe stood looking down at her, a towel draped over his shoulders and a faint trace of shaving soap still remaining on his cheek. “Sister Leliana,” he said in surprise.

“Just Leliana will do.” She pushed past him into the room. “I wish to speak with you.”

“So I gather.” He closed the door behind him, leaning against it and crossing his arms on his chest. “What can I do for you?”

“As the representative of the Grey Wardens, you will be much sought after.” She eyed his long legs and muscular arms. “Between your mystique and your physique, I imagine you will be quite the hit.”

“I would say thank you, but I suspect that was less a compliment and more a lead-in to an unpleasant task.”

Leliana smiled. “It’s possible you will not find it unpleasant, depending on your point of view.”

“And what point of view am I to espouse? I’m sure I needn’t point out to you that the Grey Wardens’ alliance with the Inquisition marks me as one of your party, even if half of Orlais hadn’t observed me arriving with you.”

“Naturally,” Leliana agreed. “But that doesn’t mean you have to be happy about it. I merely suggest that you let it be known—discreetly, of course—that you are unhappy with the Inquisition, that you wish the Grey Wardens could be free of it.”

“You think that will convince people to speak more freely? I think it will only make them distrust me.”

“Perhaps. But it is best if you seem unwilling to be connected with the rest of us. Aloof.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and lit his eyes. “Aloof I can manage.”

“I am certain you can,” Leliana agreed, “or I would not be asking it of you.”

“I suppose that means a dance is out of the question.”

“You suppose correctly. We are not here to enjoy ourselves, Warden.”

“Please, Nathaniel will do.” A spasm of pain crossed his face, his eyes darkening. “I believe I need to earn back the other title.”

“No. You needn’t. Wardens make mistakes; trust me, I know that as well as anyone.” She saw Leyden’s blue eyes again, heard her former lover’s emphatic denial of the offer that would have saved her life, and the cool drawl of the woman she had tried so hard to forget. Of all the things that might occur at this ball, the near-inevitability that she would run into Morrigan was the one Leliana dreaded the most. 

Nathaniel was looking at her closely, his keen dark eyes seeing too much, Leliana feared suddenly. 

“So you will do it?” she asked, her voice deliberately brisk.

“As you ask.” He gave her a courtly bow that had only the faintest hint of mockery—but whether he was mocking her, himself, or the situation, she could not have said.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Alistair found Thule in the parlor, pacing back and forth in front of the ornate fireplace, while Josephine and Cullen gave the Inquisitor a reminder of what faced them. Taking a seat, Alistair decided to listen, as well, since Teagan’s last briefing on the state of affairs in Orlais had been so filled with venom Alistair had had a difficult time discerning what was the truth, what an exaggeration, and what an outright lie.

“Do not forget that the purpose behind the ball is the peace talks between Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard, with an eye to ending the civil war between them,” Josephine was saying.

“That seems like an odd reason for a party; wouldn’t it be safer to carry on peace talks somewhere more discreet?” Thule asked.

Josephine chuckled. “Not in Orlais, certainly. Everyone would know, anyway. Better to invite them all, and therefore everyone will be watching everyone. In Orlais, one is often safest and most secret in a crowd … if one can ever consider oneself safe or secret at all, which is doubtful.”

“Good to know.”

“Let’s not forget Ambassador Briala,” Cullen interjected. “We don’t know what her agenda is likely to be, or which way she and the elves she represents will go in the negotiations.”

“Aren’t we here to stop an assassination?”

“Of course,” Josephine agreed. “But we also have an interest in the outcome of the peace talks.”

“If I were to guess, Corypheus may well have chosen either Gaspard or Briala to undertake his assassination scheme. Each has a grudge against Celene, each wants power for themselves,” Cullen added. “Gaspard resents his cousin for having taken the throne when he was first in line for it; he has nearly bankrupted himself fighting her. His troops love him, and most of the chevaliers are on his side.”

“Why is that?” Thule asked.

From his chair, Alistair said, “They see Celene as antimilitary, because she hasn’t invaded Ferelden.”

Cullen looked over at him in surprise. “Exactly. Additionally, she has improved relations with Nevarra.” He shrugged. “The chevaliers like to fight, and they see no wars in the offing under Celene’s rule. Naturally, they prefer Gaspard.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Josephine said. “The Orlesians in general tend to view peace as complacency.”

“I’m surprised to find the elves of Orlais unified enough to have an ambassador,” Alistair remarked.

“Briala is a surprising woman,” Josephine told him. “Rumor has it she was once Celene’s lover. The two of them … ceased their relationship, and the next thing anyone knew, Briala was organizing the elves into what amounts to an underground army. Celene is no fool—she understands that the elves are in a precarious state. She invited Briala to be part of the peace talks in order to gain the elves’ alliance.”

“Sounds more like this is her best hope to keep them under control,” Thule observed.

“That, too, Inquisitor. Remember that in Orlais, no one does anything for just one reason. There are always layers.”

“So Briala could hold a grudge either personally because she was rejected or on behalf of the elves in general?” Thule asked.

“Yes. She seems a promising lead. Although she is also highly intelligent, from what I understand,” Josephine said, “so perhaps she would be more difficult for Corypheus to bring under his sway?”

Alistair got up from the chair. “Isn’t the Empress constantly surrounded by guards and servants?” 

“Not to mention courtiers and vassals and influence seekers,” Josephine said. “But any one of them could be an agent of … anyone’s. What better place for an assassin to hide than right next to their target?”

“Surely the Empress is used to her life being in danger. She’s one of the most powerful people in all of Thedas.”

“Ah, my dear Inquisitor, but then, so are you,” Josephine pointed out. “And do you look at the people in every room you enter and see potential assassins?”

“I’m from the Carta. I always assume someone’s out to kill me.”

“Then there you have it,” Cullen said. “Celene is on her guard at all times, but any attempt of ours to warn her would likely only make her suspicious of us. We have to save her life without looking as though we suspect anything untoward.”

Alistair grinned. “That’s my specialty.”

Josephine smiled at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Why do you think we encouraged you to join us, Your Majesty?”

He sighed dramatically. “And here I thought it was my winning personality.”

Cullen rolled his eyes and Thule chuckled. “As long as no one assassinates you. The last thing we need is war between Ferelden and Orlais.”

“Yes,” Alistair agreed, the smile fading from his face. “Let’s avoid that at all costs.”


	26. Self-Possession

Lilias had worried all the way to Orlais about her lack of suitable garments for a grand ball. Since she was not part of the Inquisition, it wasn’t appropriate for her to wear the uniform, and certainly nothing she had packed when she fled Kirkwall and worn while she and Merrill hid away in forests and small farmholds was anywhere near fine enough for a simple dinner in company, much less for the presence of the Empress.

She had worried aloud about it to both Josephine and Leliana, and had found neither of them particularly receptive to her concerns. Frankly, Lilias thought that was rather strange, given that both of them were adept players of the Game. Then it occurred to her that perhaps the very rusticity of her was part of their plan, that they intended her to be a distraction, a country bumpkin drawing the stares of the Orlesian nobles. She supposed she was all right with that, although she would have preferred if they’d spoken to her before assigning her the role of public embarrassment.

But the morning of the ball a knock came at the door of the room she’d been given, and when she opened it, a slender dark-haired elf in fine livery stood there, holding a pile of parcels. “Lilias Hawke?” the elf said, her accent silky Orlesian at its best.

“Yes?”

“These are for you.”

“These what?” Lilias asked suspiciously.

The elf waited, staring at her pointedly, until Lilias stepped back from the doorway and let her in, and then she began laying out the parcels on the bed. “My name is Olette. I am from the shop of Madame Pretain, the finest dressmaker in Orlais.”

Lilias had never heard of Madame Pretain, and she thought the claim to being the finest dressmaker in Orlais sounded like typical Orlesian hyperbole, but she kept her thoughts to herself and responded with a noncommittal, “Oh, yes?”

“Yes.” Olette looked down her nose at Lilias—quite a feat, considering Lilias had a good five inches on her. “I do not have all day, messere.”

“All day?”

With an eloquent, and impatient gesture, Olette indicated that Lilias was to get undressed.

“I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re doing here.”

“Ah. I almost forgot. A thousand apologies.” Olette produced a card from inside her sleeve and handed it to Lilias with a flourish.

In Varric’s familiar flowing script, it said, “Hawke—knock ‘em dead. Possibly literally.” Lilias smiled. Typical Varric, making an extravagant gesture that she couldn’t refuse, looking out for her when she had neglected to look out for herself, and not even being here so she could hug him. She would hug the stuffing out of him when she got back to Skyhold, she promised herself. “All right, Olette, where do we begin?”

“You disrobe, messere. And quickly—we haven’t much time.”

The dress was utterly beautiful—a rich blue brocade with figures in black velvet, a black velvet overdress, and a high cowl of the brocade that framed Lilias’s face. Somehow Varric had managed to find fabric that matched her eyes from a country away. It reminded her of Bethany, and a foolish bet Bethany and Varric had carried on that she would never find fabric that matched her eyes in the marketplace. But instead of making her weep, it made Lilias feel that perhaps her sister was still with her, in some sense, that she hadn’t lost her entirely. Bless Varric, she thought.

When Olette was done arranging Lilias’s hair so that most of it was up, but part tumbled in barely-tamed curls down the side of her neck, she hardly recognized herself. This was an entirely different woman, tall and graceful and elegant. This woman could appear at the side of a king without embarrassing herself, she could claim the name of Champion of Kirkwall and be believed … and specially made pockets allowed her to still carry her daggers where she could get at them.

Olette even allowed herself a small smile when she surveyed her handiwork. She declined the coins Lilias tried to press into her hands, saying she had already been well paid by Messere Tethras, and she left Lilias standing in the middle of the room feeling for the first time in years as though she knew who she was.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule straightened his jacket as they all stood before the grand main gates outside the palace grounds. Once more he wished for Varric. His fellow dwarf’s self-possession in every moment, his blithe assurance that he was the equal of any man from his own height up to the Iron Bull’s, would have been quite useful right now, because Thule felt miserably conspicuous amongst all these tall humans.

The gates opened, and Josephine presented the collection of their invitations to the guards there, who bowed formally as the Inquisition entered as a body. Vivienne, elegant in her uniform, Leliana, practically humming with excitement, Josephine, looking unaccountably nervous. Alistair in his kingly finery and Lilias looking regal herself in a remarkably grand gown. Nathaniel Howe in his Grey Warden armor, dour and bitter-looking. Sera was nowhere to be seen already, no doubt off with her friends, and Thule rather regretted that. Sera at his side would make him look marginally less ridiculous.

Cullen wore the uniform well, and was covering his considerable nervousness better than Thule would have expected. And Cassandra, so tall and so beautiful and so completely disgusted with everything to do with this ball—and yet looking so much as though she belonged here.

Thule felt a chill of despair. What was he thinking? She had been right to suggest he couldn’t woo her. He was a child of the Stone and she was of the stars, soaring so far above his head he had no right to so much as reach in her direction.

As soon as he entered, the whispers started. Stage whispers, meant for him to hear. “A dwarf, the Herald of Andraste? The Inquisition has an odd sense of humor.” And more along the same lines, making him feel small and foolish and out of place.

Cassandra glared at all and sundry. “Do not listen to them, the small-minded inbred imbeciles,” she told him. “We all know your quality, as does the entirety of the Inquisition. There is no one else I would be so proud to have lead us.”

She stalked off into the crowd, nodding coolly at those who greeted her. Thule watched her go, feeling a warm glow. She wouldn’t have said it if she didn’t think it; Cassandra had many talents, but the ability to tell a polite fiction wasn’t among them.

Cullen clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I heartily concur. Ah,” he said, lifting his chin in the direction of the main gates. “I see Grand Duke Gaspard. No doubt he wishes to greet you, since he was the one who procured our invitations. Shall we?”

“No time like the present,” Thule said stoutly, but inwardly he sighed and tried to count the hours until this nightmare could reasonably be over and he could take his people home to Skyhold.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen approached the Grand Duke, the Inquisitor at his side. To his credit, Gaspard made it seem as though he entertained dwarves every day, neither looking down his nose at Thule nor raising his voice to be heard from the distance between their heights, as Cullen had seen others do. Embarrassing, even when done well-meaningly. 

It impressed Cullen every time he left Skyhold with the Inquisitor, rare as those occasions were, what self-possession he carried himself with. No one would have guessed, looking at him now, bowing so formally to Gaspard, that less than a year ago he had been nothing more than a minor operative within the Carta.

That the Grand Duke thought that the Inquisition courting his invitation to the ball meant support for him in the civil war was evident. Cullen admitted he rather preferred Gaspard as the leader of Orlais himself. As a former chevalier, Gaspard was less likely to look to Ferelden to conquer—he would prefer a more challenging foe with an army in better array, someone like Nevarra, for example, which would relieve the pressure on Ferelden immensely.

“Inquisitor Cadash,” Gaspard was saying, the smile underneath his mask looking almost genuine. “From the stories I've heard, you were hewn from solid steel and carry a thousand daggers.”

Thule nodded, returning the smile with his own open one. Cullen had learned that more lurked behind that genial exterior than one might imagine; let Orlais underestimate the Inquisitor at her own cost. “You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to hide a thousand daggers in this jacket. I don’t imagine I’ll do much sitting tonight,” Thule said.

Gaspard chuckled. “Nor will many of us, I would imagine. An Orlesian ball is many wonderful things, but restful is not one of them.”

“No, I don’t imagine so,” Cullen said. “Commander Cullen Rutherford, at your service.”

“Of course! Formerly of the Templars. I may have questions for you, Commander,” Gaspard said. “I have always been curious to know more about the Templar order.”

Feeling he was being subtly baited, Cullen concentrated on keeping his posture relaxed and the smile fixed on his face. “I would be delighted to answer your questions, of course.”

“Or perhaps you could both regale me with the tale of battling an army of demons in the Western Approach. How we would have liked to have joined you in ridding our lands of such a pestilence! And brought on by the Grey Wardens, of all people.” Gaspard tutted in disappointment. “So much for heroes of legend.”

“Even heroes occasionally have feet of clay,” Thule remarked. “The Grey Wardens deserve our compassion.”

“Naturally so. Still, such a coup for the Inquisition. Imagine what the Inquisition and Orlais could accomplish together! Orlais under the rule of her rightful Emperor, that is.”

“Is that an offer, or the prelude to a negotiation?” Thule was still smiling, but there was an edge to his tone. “I learned early on that nothing worth having comes for free.”

Gaspard gave the Inquisitor a slow nod. “An astute observation. Let me say this, for now—I am not a man who forgets his friends. You help me, I will help you.”

They were drifting toward the main gates, moving slowly amongst the crowds gathered near the fountains.

“Are you prepared to shock the assembly by appearing as the guest of a hateful usurper, Inquisitor? They will be telling stories of us into the next age,” Gaspard remarked.

“My pleasure, Duke Gaspard. I always appreciate the opportunity to be part of a good story … and I look forward to being of assistance in ending the civil war. Orlais has seen enough blood shed.”

There would be more yet to come, Cullen knew. Gaspard no doubt knew it, too—that there were Red Templars spread throughout southern Orlais, that rifts were still open in many places. The Inquisition still had a great deal of work left to do in Orlais, and many people still were in danger. It was hard to imagine on this peaceful night, with the faint splashing of the water in the fountain and the air perfumed with magnolia and roses.

Gaspard didn’t make mention of any of the pressing matters that still called for the Inquisition’s aid, however. He merely nodded in agreement, saying, “I could not agree with you more, my friend. The Empire needs stability, security, and peace. Now more than ever.” He hesitated. “If you truly do care about the safety of the Orlesian people, Inquisitor, perhaps … perhaps I could convince you to look into something for me?”

“Such as?”

“This elven woman Briala. I do not trust her. I suspect she intends to disrupt the negotiations, for reasons of her own. Perhaps you could discreetly ask around, find out her plans before she can set them into motion?”

“I intend to discover many things this evening, my lord. Certainly secret plans to disrupt the negotiations should be amongst them.”

With an expression unmistakably serious, Gaspard tilted his mask up so he could look Thule full in the face. “Be careful, Inquisitor. I detest the Game, that is no secret, but if we do not play it well … let us just say that making us look like villains is the least of the things our enemies could do. Do not underestimate them—they are expert players.” He let the mask fall again, and in a louder voice, said, “We are keeping the court waiting, Inquisitor. Shall we?”

Thule gestured for him to lead the way. “Indeed we shall.”

Cullen followed them both, looking around him and wondering which of the many people around them was plotting their deaths. Perhaps it was all.

He would be very happy to find himself back at Skyhold again.


	27. Etiquette and Protocol

Gaspard had excused himself to greet other guests. In the moment after Thule was left alone by Gaspard and before Lady Monfische swooped down on him, no doubt anxious to add a dwarf to the collection of exotic ex-lovers she claimed, Leliana caught him lightly by the sleeve and drew him away. She enjoyed the momentary disconcertion on Lady Monfische’s face; a true player of the Game would have been able to carry off that moment as though she had not intended to approach the Inquisitor at all. Point to Leliana, points lost by her ladyship.

Ah, there really was nothing like the Game.

Josephine joined them as well; an uncharacteristically nervous Josephine. Normally, she enjoyed the Game as Leliana did, the two of them together practically unbeatable, but this Lord Otranto her mother wished her to marry had her totally off-kilter. Leliana hoped he would crawl out of whatever hole he came from soon, be dealt with and sent back, and be out of their lives, ceasing to be distraction, very soon.

In the meanwhile, she would make do with what she had. She had won with weaker cards than these before.

“Please remember, Inquisitor, that how you speak to the Court is a matter of life and death,” Josephine was saying.

“Sticks and stones, Josephine,” Thule said, smiling at her.

“Ah, not here, Inquisitor. Here the sticks and the stones are what you hope they will use to avoid the way they can flay you with their words. Trust me,” Leliana said to him, wishing her earnestness didn’t show through so thoroughly.

“Every word, every gesture is evaluated for weakness,” Josephine agreed. “It is no simple matter of etiquette and protocol.”

“You ladies know we’ve been over this already, right? Many times,” Thule reminded them both.

“It does no harm to go over it again.”

“I’m not intimidated by stuffy Orlesian nobles,” he said rather stiffly.

Leliana looked down at him sharply. “No one is suggesting that you are. However, you must take them seriously. Orlais is arguably the most powerful nation in Thedas … and they will argue it, at any chance they get. But they feel that power slipping, and they are desperate to retain it. You represent another powerful entity, perched directly on their border, and your power is growing. They admire the mystery about you, the strangeness, but they fear and despise it at the same time.”

“These people burn cities as a diversionary tactic and assassinate one another as a feint,” Josephine added. “The Game is like Wicked Grace played to the death. You must never reveal your cards.”

“Well, first, I’d like to point out that even you, my lady Montilyet, can’t beat me at Wicked Grace, and second, that both of you love this Game you’re so anxious to warn me about more than you do a pair of finely crafted shoes.”

Leliana smiled at the Inquisitor, liking his confidence and his incisiveness, even while she found them worrying. “You are not wrong. There is really nothing like this. Nonetheless … you must remember that when you meet the Empress, the eyes of the entire court will be upon you.” She allowed her smile to deepen and warm and become genuine humor for a moment. “You were safer in the Fade with the Fear demon.”

Thule rolled his eyes at her. “Aren’t you both just full of joy and light this evening.”

“We do our best.” Josephine straightened her jacket. “If you will excuse me, I see le Chevalier du Chelle, and I promised to speak to him.” She winked at Leliana. “He wants to know about the Iron Bull.”

“Tell him to come find out for himself,” Leliana called after her. She looked down at Thule. “Everything will be fine, Inquisitor. I will see to that.”

“And I trust you.”

Leliana was momentarily startled by the sincerity in his voice. “You do, don’t you? Has no one warned you of the danger of trusting spies?”

“I’m from the Carta; I’ve been thoroughly warned about the danger of trusting anyone. But the danger of not trusting can be as great. You have earned my trust, over and over again.” He smiled at someone across the courtyard. “Is it me, or is that woman wearing a rooster on her shoulder?”

Leliana didn’t even have to turn to see who he meant. “Lady Dellamore. She affects to be ‘rural’, but the bird is imported. She’s never set foot outside a city.” She smiled. “Be prepared for many terrible and off-color jokes about her cock.”

“Am I permitted to joke about mine?”

“Very carefully, Inquisitor. Do try not to accidentally betroth yourself in the process.” Leliana let her eyes twinkle at him, and then, very carefully, she let him out into the waters of the Imperial court.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Lilias was glad that Alistair seemed determined not to leave her side. For all that the beautiful gown Varric had sent made her feel grand and imposing, she also felt a bit like an impostor, and the whispers about her past were beginning to wear her down. That they were intended to do so, she knew perfectly well … but they were hitting their mark, all the same.

“They’re whispering about everyone,” Alistair assured her. “You, me, the Inquisitor, Cullen …”

“They mostly seem to want to sleep with Cullen.”

“Apparently everyone does.” He looked at her sideways, and she caught the unspoken question.

“Can’t say that I ever did, but he was very different in Kirkwall.”

“So you might think differently now?” There was surprise and, yes, jealousy on Alistair’s face—a flattering emotion, until Lilias remembered that Cullen had also been involved with her cousin.

“Is that any of your concern?” she asked him coldly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, instantly contrite. “That was out of line.”

“Thank you.”

They joined Cassandra, who was standing at the top of the stairs waiting for the doors into the grand ballroom to open. She looked distinctly, and purposefully, unhappy to be there. “This dress uniform is preposterous,” she snapped. “Formal armor would have been better.”

“Difficult to dance in formal armor,” Alistair suggested.

She froze him with a single look from her grey eyes. “We are not here for entertainment, Your Majesty.”

He shrugged, unperturbed by her. “I am.”

“How fortunate for you.”

“Oh, now, you wouldn’t want to be here for pure enjoyment anyway. You vastly prefer being here on business.” 

Cassandra gave a very small nod. “Perhaps so. Nonetheless, must they keep us standing here half the night? These formalities are enough to drive a person mad.”

Lilias frowned. “Aren’t you a princess? Surely you grew up with this kind of thing.”

“Yes. I did. Which is precisely why I have so little patience for it now. I am well aware of how empty it is underneath.” She looked around, clucking her tongue in disapproval. “All these people, spending a year’s food allowance for many families on a single gown, to disport themselves at an event they will not enjoy because they are too busy trying to score points in an imaginary game that no one ever wins, and yet they think themselves important? Important people are the ones who are out there every day fighting with their two hands, making a real difference.”

She stopped, her cheeks pink from the force of her emotion, and from the sudden realization that they both knew she was talking about the Inquisitor.

Alistair smiled. “Of course,” he pointed out, “anyone not born a princess had better be very careful how vehemently they rant about all these trappings.”

“A good point,” Cassandra agreed. “And perhaps I was too hasty in my comments. This … is not my idea of a pleasant evening.”

Lilias smiled. “It isn’t really mine, either, although I intend to enjoy it while I can.” She squeezed Alistair’s arm, glad she was here with him. In truth, she couldn’t think of anyone she would rather attend a ball with, which was probably a dangerous feeling, but at the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to put it aside.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen was standing as far from the gaggle of giggling young women who were staring at him as he could, with his arms folded across his chest forbiddingly, hoping that would deter them. Thus far, it only seemed to have offered encouragement, which was the last thing he had intended.

Out of nowhere, he felt a pair of slender fingers pinch his rear, and the surprise was complete enough that he couldn’t suppress a very undignified yelp as he leaped away from the offending digits. He turned to see Sera, her red uniform already disheveled, giggling at him.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded.

“Thinking it was funny. You’ve got a stick up there, you know. Might want to look into taking it out someday.”

“Sera, could you, please, just for once, attempt not to be ridiculous?”

She frowned at him as though he was some variety of simpleton. “No.”

“Of course. What was I thinking?”

“Dunno. Weren’t, I suppose. You want to know?”

“Know what?”

“What my friends are saying?”

“Oh. Yes, I do.” He was still waiting for the signal that would say the Inquisition’s people were all in place, and was a little bit frightened and a little bit impressed that Sera’s network was apparently already in operation.

“Watch the elves. Shifty.”

“Shifty?” he echoed. That wasn’t much of a report.

“Yeah. Nervous. Dropping things. Walking off in the middle of tasks.” She very definitely thought he was a simpleton now. “Like you could get whipped, or worse, for doing at the Empress’s mucky-muck mess.”

Cullen looked at her, understanding. “I see. That is … interesting indeed. Are your friends going to keep us posted?”

“Yeah. I’ll check in again in a bit. Got to be introduced first.” She tipped her head toward the doors of the ballroom, which were opening now.

Inside the ballroom, the majordomo intoned, “Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden, Hero of the Fifth Blight. Lilias Amell Hawke, former Champion of Kirkwall.”

Whispers rippled across the ballroom, but Lilias held her head high as Alistair led her down the steps and across the dance floor to be formally presented to the Empress.

Gaspard was introduced next, and then it was the Inquisition’s turn. “Lord Inquisitor Thule Cadash. Shepherd and leash of the wayward Order of the Templars, purger of the heretics from the ranks of the faithful.”

Well, that hurt, Cullen reflected. As if the Templars needed a rogue dwarf from the Carta to shepherd them and hold the ends of their leash. It hurt even more to admit that they had, that he had abandoned his own order and left it to another to save it.

Thule and Celene were bowing to each other across the ballroom now, as the presenter’s voice continued above the din, which had grown significantly in volume after the Inquisitor was announced.

“Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena …” 

The list of names seemed to go on and on until Cassandra’s voice rose fiercely, piercing the ballroom. “Get on with it.”

The presenter did so, seemingly unperturbed.

“Pentaghast,” he finished. “Fourteenth cousin to the King of Nevarra, nine times removed.”

Cassandra shook her head at him as he continued to heap titles on her, but she moved forward. 

They announced Vivienne next, and Sera, who had given some ridiculous name that she giggled at and no one else did, and then it was Cullen’s turn. As he straightened his jacket and walked across the ballroom, not even hearing the announcements for Josephine, Leliana, and Nathaniel, he tried to forget that was just a farmer’s son from Honnleath in Ferelden, just a broken down ex-Templar lyrium addict, and remember that he was here representing the Inquisition, an organization that was going to save Thedas from ruin and hopefully make a few people’s lives better in the process. He was the Commander of that organization, and as such, had every right to be here. So why did he feel like such an impostor?

He felt a headache coming on, beginning to tighten his temples, and he surreptitiously touched the little vial of liquid Dagna had given him, grateful for the reminder of her understanding and her support. Strengthened, he moved on to the dais and made his bow to the Empress of Orlais.

Maybe he would actually find a moment to write his sister. She might enjoy reading about this.


	28. The Empress

Lilias should have felt nervous, here on the arm of the King of Ferelden, about to meet the Empress of Orlais … but she wasn’t. Instead, she found it all so unbelievable: that here she was, a penniless apostate’s daughter, standing in the midst of the most powerful people in Thedas. Carver would have enjoyed this, she thought, imagining her giant brother standing here, trying to be polite. The thought made her smile involuntarily, and that drew the attention of the Empress.

“The former Champion of Kirkwall,” Celene said in her mannered tone. Lilias wondered if she ever got tired of speaking that way. “What a surprise to have you here.”

“It was a bit of a surprise to me, as well, Your Grace.”

“How … generous of His Majesty King Alistair to invite you.” Celene’s eyes moved to Alistair’s face, studying him. “You look well, Alistair.”

“As do you,” he replied, giving her as much of a courtly bow as he could without letting go of Lilias. The message he was sending was clear, Lilias thought with some misgivings. He was making an open avowal of affection, if not of intentions, in front of the entire court. She wished she had realized that sooner. Then again, what did she have to lose? She was already disgraced. If he wound up with egg on his face because he couldn’t let go of his former lover’s memory, it was his reputation that hung in the balance.

Behind them, Lilias heard the Inquisition’s names being announced. Over her shoulder she glimpsed Thule making his way across the floor with Grand Duke Gaspard, and she exhaled in relief, knowing her time under Celene’s direct scrutiny was almost at an end. 

Celene and Alistair had been exchanging barbed pleasantries on topics regarding their shared border.

“So interesting to see you here with the Inquisition, Alistair,” Celene cooed. “Such excellent work they’re doing.”

“They are. Good work, necessary work. They’ve already solved the mystery of the Conclave, and I support their fight against Corypheus.”

“As do I. On that, at least, we can all agree.”

Next to Celene, a sharp-featured blonde woman with a dramatic and shocking haircut drew in a breath. As far as Lilias could tell, she was the only one who had heard it, and she watched the blonde clearly consider interjecting herself into the conversation and then think better of it. Her glittering eyes settled on Alistair, contemplatively at first, and then with an avid gleam that had Lilias clinging more tightly to his arm.

Celene turned her gaze on Lilias again. “You must have so many entertaining stories, Champion. I have always wanted to visit Kirkwall, but alas, the affairs of state …” She gave a tiny but exaggerated shrug and an accompanying smile meant to hint at her own importance and Lilias’s lack of any. “Later tonight, perhaps we can sit together and you can tell me about your experiences.” Her eyes darted to Alistair, as well, her meaning clear.

Lilias smiled. “Many of my stories end badly, Your Grace, but if you wish to weep, I can tell them to you.”

“Weeping is merely the other face of laughter, my dear,” Celene told her. “We must do both on a regular basis.”

It was the most human Celene had seemed thus far, and Lilias bowed slightly, recognizing the truth of the words. Laughter had been decidedly missing from her life of late, drowned by too much weeping. Perhaps it was time to turn that on its head for a while.

She and Alistair moved out of the way as Thule and the others came up the steps.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule, also, found it amusing to be standing in front of the Empress of Orlais, thinking that less than a year ago, his only interest in attending such an affair would would have been in what he could steal. He had looked at countless pieces of jewelry and other objects of art tonight, and his fingers hadn’t itched once. He wondered if that meant he was reformed, or if some innate drive in him had been erased. Had he lost his edge? Well, he supposed tonight would tell that tale.

Gaspard bowed to Celene and the lady who stood partially in the shadows behind her. “Cousin. My dear sister.”

“Grand Duke,” Celene said, with what sounded like genuine warmth in her voice. “We are always honored when your presence graces our court.”

“Don’t waste my time with pleasantries,” Gaspard snapped. “We have business to conclude.”

“Always so hasty, Gaspard. Enjoy the party! We will meet for the negotiations after we have seen to our other guests.”

Gaspard made a complicated—and in Thule’s opinion, rather silly—bow that involved flapping his arms like a goose’s wings, and stepped aside, and then the eyes of the Empress of Orlais were on Thule. The eyes of the most powerful woman in the world. When had she last looked on a tattooed dwarf? Had she ever done so when the dwarf was neither a sideshow nor a criminal? Certainly, none had ever stood before her in a position of authority to match her own. Thule squared his shoulders and stood his tallest, throwing back his head and meeting her gaze squarely, to let her know that he was not intimidated.

“Lord Inquisitor, we welcome you to the Winter Palace. Allow us to present our cousin, the Grand Duchess of Lydes, without whom this gathering would not have been possible.”

The second lady moved forward into the light. Half her head was shaved, her blonde hair falling dramatically over her face, nearly concealing one eye. The visible eye looked Thule over coolly. “What an unexpected pleasure,” she said emotionlessly. Certainly without any hint of real pleasure. “I was not aware that the Inquisition would be part of our festivities.” She injected a certain amount of naked flirtation into her gaze, which Thule found disquieting. He had been the recipient of female attention often enough to see when it was genuine and when it was put-on, and this was decidedly the latter. Melting back into the shadows, the Grand Duchess promised, “We will certainly speak later, Inquisitor.”

“I look forward to it,” he said, bowing slightly, as he imagined he was expected to do.

Celene smiled at him. “Your arrival at court is like a cool wind on a summer’s day. Most refreshing.”

“I am delighted to be here, Your Majesty.”

“We have heard much of your exploits—they have made grand tales for long evenings. How do you find Halamshiral?”

“I have no words, Your Majesty. Halamshiral has many beauties, and I couldn’t do them justice.” He didn’t add that of them all, the one he found most beautiful was the woman at his side, standing there in her impeccably tailored uniform, bristling with hostility at being forced to attend the event. He hoped Cassandra knew who he meant, but he rather imagined she didn’t.

That his words had pleased Celene was evident from the easing of tension in Josephine on his other side.

Celene nodded. “Your modesty does you credit, Inquisitor, and speaks well for the Inquisition. Feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the ballroom. We look forward to watching you dance.”

“I’m afraid that’s one delight I may have to ask you to forego, Your Majesty. I believe the figure I would cut on the dance floor would be … rather unseemly.” He regretted not being able to dance with Cassandra—surely the prince she dreamed of would sweep her off her feet by moving her around the room. He could dance, and dance well, but it was difficult to avoid looking like a fool dancing with someone two feet taller than you were.

“A pity, but understandable, indeed. My lady Pentaghast, my lady Montilyet, certainly you will grace my ballroom?”

Josephine uttered an immediate assent, but Cassandra merely glowered, and to judge from the actual mirth in Celene’s laugh, she had expected as much.

Thule led the others away from the Empress and up the steps to the main floor again, where they all scattered according to their interests. He noticed with some amusement that Cullen had already attracted a following, a gaggle of young ladies and gentlemen fanning themselves and making not-particularly-discreet comments about Cullen’s many assets. Cullen’s ears were as red as his uniform.

Sera was in the corner, giggling with an elven servant. The elf looked nervous, and was relieved when Sera disappeared, mincing her way through the crowd in imitation of a woman in exceptionally high-heeled shoes.

Next to him, Vivienne murmured, “You didn’t embarrass yourself as much as I feared. Well done, my dear.”

“Thank you. Enjoying yourself?”

She laughed. “Why, of course! This is the Game. If I didn’t enjoy it, I’d be dead by now.” She tipped him a wink and moved off through the crowd, greeting most of the revelers by name.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana tugged lightly at Thule’s sleeve, and he followed her onto one of the balconies. She took a glass from a passing tray and handed it to him. “Pretend to sip. It’s best not to trust anything you didn’t pour for yourself.”

“Ah, just like the Carta.” He smiled.

“Indeed.” She took a seat on a low bench, which put her close enough to Thule to whisper, “What did the Duke say?”

“His finger points at Briala.”

Leliana nodded, having expected as much. “She is up to something, certainly, but she can’t be our focus. The best place to strike at Celene is from her side, and there we may run into a challenge. You see, the empress is fascinated by mysticism. Foreseeing the future, speaking with the dead … all that sort of rubbish.”

“Not uncommon amongst the nobility.”

“No, that is true. But at the moment, it has made Celene uniquely vulnerable to … someone potentially quite dangerous.” Leliana could see Morrigan in her mind’s eye, dark and beautiful and dangerous, and always so sure that she knew more than anyone else. And she remembered those cool, drawling tones late at night, sibilantly hissing promises and lies in Leyden’s ear. Would the cost have been too high? Leliana wondered in despair. Had Leyden taken Morrigan’s bargain, would they all have lived to regret it? Certainly, they had lived to regret the fact that she hadn’t. 

“Who?” Thule asked, bringing Leliana back to the present.

“Her ‘occult advisor’. An apostate who charmed the empress and key members of the court, as if by magic.”

Thule’s eyebrows rose, altering the lines of his tattoo. “How can Celene openly keep an apostate in the Imperial court?”

Leliana shrugged. “She is Celene. She can do much as she likes. And there has always been a position for a mage in the Imperial Court. Vivienne held it last, and she made it into a tool of political power. Before that, those who held it were little more than court jesters.”

“Are you saying you think this ‘occult advisor’ is controlling the minds of the court? That’s powerful blood magic.”

She felt a faint hint of guilt at implying that Morrigan was a blood mage. Morrigan had always been openly contemptuous of blood magic as the resource of those who weren’t intelligent enough to succeed by any other means. But how better to make Thule understand appropriately how intelligent and cunning and deceitful and dangerous Morrigan was? It was imperative that Leliana be certain he was on his toes, prepared for whatever wiles she might turn in his direction. She was not above trying to seduce him … and Leliana wanted to prevent that for an entire constellation of reasons. Chiefly to save the world, yes, from whatever Morrigan might have in mind—but she also thought of Cassandra, and how devastated her friend would be to lose the Inquisitor’s regard.

“She’s worth investigating,” she said now, not committing herself to any specific implication. “We cannot be sure of anything here.”


	29. The Players and the Game

Cullen was increasingly uncomfortable. The group of people following him about was growing larger, their unseemly and grossly personal comments rising in both volume and vividness. He wished he could run from them and hide, or turn and shout at them and have them scatter like so many recruits, but neither was appropriate—or possible—at the ball. He hadn’t even been able to take Dagna’s headache potion, surrounded by them all, not wanting to give rise to any troublesome rumors, and his temples were pounding.

He had said as much to the Inquisitor when Thule came by. The Inquisitor had taken a certain amount of delight in twitting him on his popularity. Cullen had taken it in stride, knowing Thule meant nothing by it, but since he would far rather have a red-hot poker stuck through his head than have to make small talk with a simpering Orlesian girl, he had a limited sense of humor about his predicament. 

Thule had asked him, discreetly, for a military opinion of who would be in the best interests of the Inquisition to rule Orlais. Cullen had given him a brief but considered opinion on behalf of Gaspard, and Thule had suggested Cullen take the time to get to know the Grand Duke, to be certain his opinion would remain the same on further discussion.

That sounded like the kind of command Cullen could carry out in a ballroom. It seemed unlikely that Grand Duke Gaspard would ask him to dance. Instead, perhaps they could enjoy a quiet conversation on tactics.

Cullen excused himself as best he could from his followers and went in search of the Grand Duke, finding him out on the balcony. The clear night air freshened Cullen’s spirits, as did the fact that his followers scattered at a single glare from Gaspard.

“Thank you,” Cullen said with feeling. “I thought they would never leave me alone.”

Gaspard chuckled. “We are the rare pair who would not enjoy such a following. I understand completely, Commander.” He proffered a bottle and a glass. “Do have a drink.”

Cullen accepted with appreciation, sipping gingerly at the amber-colored liquid, finding it some of the finest port wine he had ever tasted. He said as much to Gaspard.

“If you like it that much, I will have a case sent back to you when you return to your Skyhold.”

He started to protest, then thought that Josephine would most certainly want him to accept, for form’s sake as well as to improve Skyhold’s cellars. “Most generous of you.”

“I see your Inquisitor has been busily charming the court.”

“He has a gift that way,” Cullen agreed. 

“One either understands the Game instinctively, or devotes a lifetime to learning its intricacies … or ignores it entirely.” He gave a rueful smile. “As I have. To my cost.”

“How is it that you remain so aloof from the Game?” 

Gaspard sighed. “Ah, it is a story known all too well to all of Orlais. But of course, you, my friend, are too sensible to be Orlesian.”

Cullen entirely agreed, but felt it preferable to remain silent. He offered a small nod in acknowledgement of the statement.

“You see,” Gaspard went on, “I am the rightful heir to the throne of Orlais. But I am clumsy and poor at the Game, while my cousin Celene excels at it, so she charmed the Council of Heralds and gained the crown. It looks fetching on her, naturally, but I intend to take it back.”

“How is it that your claim to the throne supercedes hers?”

“Thanks to the Hundred Days Cough that swept Val Royeaux in 8:77, only three grandchildren of Emperor Judicael the First remain: Celene, myself, and my sister Florianne. I am the eldest of the three, but my line comes through my mother. Celene’s is through her father, therefore she claimed the Valmont name and through it, the throne.”

“How does your sister feel about this?” Cullen asked. Surely someone with such a close claim to the throne ought to be a player in this situation, but this was the first he had even heard Florianne’s name.

“She supports me, naturally, while remaining at Celene’s side to be certain I am aware of my cousin’s machinations.”

It sounded to Cullen’s apolitical ears as though Florianne was playing both sides. No doubt Leliana would have something to say about that.

“Do you have a plan to regain the throne for yourself?”

Gaspard shrugged. “At court, twists and turns are in fashion. But I am a straightforward person, as I imagine you are. I had hoped to win through battle, on a field where I am at home. But thus far all we have achieved is a standstill, and the loss of too many of our young men.” He sighed, looking sadly off over the balcony. “War is both beautiful and terrible, don’t you agree, Commander?”

Cullen nodded. He leaned more toward the terrible, but the excitement that pulsed in the veins during a battle, the sharpness of focus as you tried to outwit your enemy, the feeling of making the perfect strike … he could see a beauty there as well.

After a thoughtful look at Cullen, Gaspard went on, his voice lower, “I attempted to bribe the Council of Heralds, and when that failed, I threatened them, hoping to counteract Celene’s charm. It remains to be seen whether my gambit will succeed.” He added, “I tell you this because no doubt your Inquisitor, or our charming Lady Nightingale, has already discovered it.”

“A reasonable conclusion,” Cullen said. In Gaspard’s place, he might have resorted to both those attempts himself. “May I ask where the Inquisition comes into your plan? You were most gracious to extend us the invitation to attend.”

“Ah, that was the simplest stroke of all—you see, if the nobles believe the Inquisition supports me, it will help me in the negotiations.”

“And if the Inquisition supports you, will you support it in return?”

“Naturally so. You are doing good work, and you will need the help and friendship of Orlais to succeed in the task ahead of you.”

“Do you have a plan for winning the negotiations?”

Gaspard chuckled. “I intend to drink a great deal. Celene will talk circles around us all, the elf will glower at everyone … and somehow, by the end of it all, a war will be ended. Politics.”

“And the giant hole in the sky? Where does that fit in your politics?”

“It doesn’t,” Gaspard said simply. “The Court may see it as part of the Game, to be enfolded into the everyday intrigues, but this is something new, something frightening. The Inquisition seeks to mend the sky; I support that with all my heart. Give me a battlefield, Commander.”

“I certainly hope we can do so.”

“As do I.”  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Alistair had been drawn away by a Fereldan noble, leaving Lilias standing near the dance floor on her own. He had given her a comically distressed look as he moved off, indicating that whatever the man wanted to speak about, Alistair wanted equally fervently to avoid, but there had been no help for it.

Lilias shifted her weight from foot to foot. The gown, while glorious, was also quite heavy, and she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. Should she be mingling? The whispers all around her made her want to shrink into the wall and disappear; they didn’t give her much confidence in her own ability to be impressive or do the Inquisition any good.

Across the dance floor, she saw three women wearing identical dresses, hats, and masks moving purposefully in her direction, and she strongly considered fleeing. There was nowhere to go, however, and she had been brought here for a reason. 

“Remember that you are a Hawke,” she muttered to herself. She wasn’t sure how that was supposed to help, but it made her smile. Any time she or her siblings were nervous about something, her mother would say “Remember that you are of the blood of the Amells” and her father would smile and say, “Better yet, remember that you’re a Hawke.”

The three women approached her, calling out, “Champion! Oh, Champion.”

When they were near enough to speak to, she said, “Please, I am no longer the Champion of Kirkwall. Ser Hawke will do.” In Orlais, it should have been Messere, but by the snowy peaks of the Frostbacks, she was a Fereldan, and proud of it.

“Ser Hawke, then,” said one of the three, with a deep curtsey that seemed to Lilias’s untrained eye to be free of irony. “May we have a word? It is very important.”

“Of course. Have several.” Oh, she shouldn’t be flippant, she thought. But it seemed impossible to keep an appropriate guard on her tongue.

All three of them curtseyed this time. “The Empress would like to speak with you.”

“To me?”

“But of course.”

“How can I be certain you really come from the Empress?”

They looked at each other blankly, clearly confused by the question, then back at Lilias. “Why, we wear the masks of House Valmont. We are the public faces of the Empress.”

“Oh. How nice for you.”

“If you will accompany us?” Without waiting for her assent, they moved off across the dance floor, and Lilias followed them, feeling that she had little other choice. They led her to a grand, secluded balcony and waited by the door while she went through it. The Empress Celene was waiting for her there. With a discreet nod to her ladies, they disappeared, and Lilias was alone with the most powerful woman in Thedas.

“You wished to speak with me?”

“I did.” Alone, Celene’s voice had lost much of its mannered quality. “You are here with the Inquisition, and with King Alistair. I … have some questions, if you do not mind.”

“I may not have answers,” Lilias said honestly, inwardly aghast at her own lack of ceremony. Leliana would have her for lunch if she knew Lilias was speaking to Celene this way.

“I will take that risk, then.” Celene studied Lilias carefully. “It has not been easy for you since the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry.”

“No, it hasn’t.”

“And yet here you are. It had been my understanding that the dalliance between you and the king was concluded.”

“Mine, as well.”

“But it is not?”

Lilias shrugged. She didn’t have that answer, and what thoughts she did have felt too personal to share with the Empress of Orlais.

“I see. It is not. That is … disappointing.”

“Why?” Lilias frowned. “Did you—oh.” The light dawned. “You wanted to create a vast empire by joining in matrimony.”

“The thought had crossed my mind. Alas, King Alistair has proven most difficult to charm. Surprisingly so.”

Lilias wasn’t in the least surprised. Leyden again. This time, working to the benefit of Ferelden, at least, and probably all of Thedas. “He’s very stubborn,” she said.

“Yes, so I gather. But the two of you … this is not political, since you no longer have any power.”

“It was never political,” Llilas said, surprising herself with her own warmth.

“I see.” Celene nodded, rather sadly, Lilias thought. “Despite what you may have heard, I am not all calculations and ulterior motives. I would not want to be the reason another woman’s heart was broken. I withdraw my claim on your King Alistair.”

Not sure what to say, Lilias at last settled on “Thank you.”

Celene inclined her head regally. “You are also here with the Inquisition. Does that mean you support their cause?”

“They’re trying to close the Breach. I can’t imagine why anyone would refuse to support them.”

“Between the two of us … and your Inquisitor, if you wish to tell him so, I agree with you. Should I succeed in tonight’s negotiations, the Inquisitor will have my support.”

“But only if he helps you?”

“No. Regardless. I am not offering a bargaining chip; I am pledging my support of the Inquisition. But privately, you understand.”

“I do understand.”

“My lady Hawke, I wish you joy in the years ahead, and success with your king. He has been unhappy for many years—I can see this, because I, too, am not always happy in my position. But I was born to this, and he came to it with little preparation. He needs … support. Someone to stand with him. Perhaps you can be that person.”

Lilias wasn’t ready to make that commitment, and certainly not to anyone other than Alistair. “I appreciate your well-wishes.”

“Yes.” Celene dipped in a tiny curtsey. “Thank you for your time.”

“My pleasure, Your Majesty.” Lilias saw herself off the balcony, leaving the Empress standing there alone in the darkness.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana leaned on a balcony railing and watched Thule as he made his way through the garden below. He was doing quite well—better than she had anticipated he would.

Behind her, she heard the voice she had been expecting, the drawling tones of Ambassador Briala. “Your Inquisitor Cadash is quite the surprise.”

“I find that hard to believe, Briala. You have enough people embedded in our organization to be sure of what he’s capable of.”

“He can charm a noble here and there, but can he keep their favor? I doubt it. The nobility are fickle. I should know.”

Leliana raised her eyebrows. “She still loves you, and you know that as well as I do.”

“Love is one thing. Patronage, support, trust … those are entirely other things.”

“You cannot hold her to a standard she cannot maintain.”

“I can do whatever I wish.” Briala smiled. “And I can’t believe that you, of all people, are counseling me to consider the feelings of the Empress. I'm surprised you haven’t thrown your support behind Gaspard. Get your Ambassador Montilyet to bat her eyelashes at him and he will be putty in her hands.”

“Yes, and Orlais will lie in chaos. Chaos will not help us.”

“So you want me to deliver the victory for the Empress.”

“She is the voice of reason, after all.”

“But also caution, and compromise. Will the Inquisition compromise?”

Leliana smiled. “I am not the Inquisitor.”

“You are the power.”

To her own surprise, Leliana knew perfectly well that she was not the power behind the Inquisition. Thule listened to her, yes, as he did to Cullen and to Josephine, but he was his own man, and he made his own decisions. But she was hardly about to admit that to Briala. There was no advantage to it. Instead, she said, “We found the bodies of the ambassadors you killed, you know.”

“Did you?” Briala sounded uninterested.

“How would Celene react to that knowledge?”

“Celene has been part of the Game her entire life. She knows how it is played.” She tutted. “Compare the elegance of that with Gaspard’s foolish and clumsy bullying of the Council of Heralds. If he took the throne, the nobility would eat him.”

“Possibly literally,” Leliana agreed. She looked at Briala with interest. “I don’t remember you being so enthusiastic about the fate of your fellow elves.”

“Things have changed since you were an everyday part of our life here, Nightingale.” Briala’s eyes were frosty and far away. “Things have changed a great deal.”

“So I understand.” Leliana looked around to be certain that they weren’t being overheard, and then, softly, she said, “What has happened to Florianne? I do not remember her being quite so … extreme.”

“That is an unfortunate haircut,” Briala agreed, her voice just as low. “It marks a change that is more than just outward. She has developed a bitterness that is … new.”

“She bears watching.”

“Indeed. And for more than just Celene’s sake. If something were to happen to the Empress … where would the eyes turn? To the challenger to the throne? Unlikely. Gaspard is too blunt a blade for that. So, then, to the unknown dwarven Inquisitor come up from the Carta, or to the elven ex-lover of the Empress. Either one would be bad for everyone. Celene’s continued good health is good for us both.”

“You make an excellent point.”

“Then we are agreed.”

Leliana smiled. “Do we ever truly agree? Let us say, we understand one another.”

“Always the cautious one.” Briala started to turn away, and then turned back. “Watch out for her. She bears no fond memories of you, and will cause you trouble if she can.”

There was no doubt in Leliana’s mind that the “her” in question was Morrigan. “I’m aware of it.”

“As long as you are. Enjoy the ball, Nightingale.”

Leliana nodded, looking out over the gardens with pleasure. The scent of magnolia was in the air, sweet and heavy, and the night was warm and beautiful, and the Game was afoot. There really was nothing quite like it.


	30. Morrigan

Thule let himself out of the library, closing the doors very quietly behind him. He saw no one nearby, so he had hopes that his jaunt outside the confines of the ball had gone unnoticed.

But before he had gone two steps, a coolly amused voice came from the shadows. “Well, well. What have we here?”

He stopped still. “Show yourself.”

“Have no fear, I shall. I have been waiting for you.” 

The woman who emerged from the shadows was one of the most beautiful women Thule had ever met. Her hair was black as a raven’s wing, glossy and thick, her eyes tilted and golden like a cat’s. There hung about her an exotic perfume that went straight to Thule’s head. It was a pity she had such poor fashion sense, however—her gown was an amalgamation of many different styles, lace and panels and brocade and jewels piled on top of each other as though she couldn’t get enough finery; as though, like a raven, she collected everything shiny she saw and felt the need to wear it. On the whole, he decided, he much preferred Cassandra’s severe tailoring.

“So you’re the Empress’s occult advisor, I take it.”

“I am. And you are the leader of the new Inquisition, fabled Herald of the faith. Delivered from the grasp of the Fade by the hand of blessed Andraste herself.”

She had quite the voice, purring and cultured and redolent with promise—if only it hadn’t been so superior at the same time. Thule had never enjoyed being talked down to, not in any sense.

“It didn’t quite happen that way,” he pointed out.

The woman smiled. “Naturally not. One would have to believe there was such a spirit as Andraste still extant to swallow such a tale. But it has its uses in calming the masses, to be sure.”

“Inconvenient types, those unruly masses.”

“Sometimes.” She inclined her head in belated greeting. “I am Morrigan.”

“Thule Cadash.”

“You have been very busy this evening, Thule Cadash, hunting in the dark corners of the palace.”

He shrugged. “What can I say, I was raised in the Carta. Old habits die hard.”

“You need not be coy with me, Inquisitor. I believe that you and I hunt the same prey. You do not wish harm to befall the Empress; no more do I.”

“Because she’s expedient, or because you care for her?” he asked.

Morrigan laughed. “You can hardly expect a truthful answer to such a blunt question, not here in the heart of the Great Game itself. Let us say because I owe her, and because I oppose chaos.”

“Chaos can be very hard to manipulate.”

“It can, indeed. Also, if something were to happen to her, to whom would the eyes turn? To her ‘occult advisor’, naturally. I cannot afford such scrutiny.” She gestured with a tilt of her head that he should follow her down the hall, farther from the party. Thule moved cautiously after her, glad to feel his hidden daggers moving with him. This woman viewed herself as being very powerful, so perhaps if she meant him harm there would be no time to use them, but he had faith in his own quickness. “I will speak first, if that will make you more comfortable. Recently, I found, and killed, an unwelcome guest in these halls. An agent of Tevinter.” She reached into the bag that dangled from her wrist and removed a key, handing it to Thule. “I took this from his body.”

“What does this open?”

“I cannot say. And if the Empress is in danger, I cannot leave her unwatched long enough to search. However, you can.”

“I can’t stay away from the party indefinitely, not without causing a scene.”

“You strike me as a most resourceful type, Inquisitor. I am certain you can manage.”

“Did you manage to get any useful information from the Tevinter before you killed him?”

“Sadly, no. He attacked me first, and in defending myself I killed him more quickly than I would have wished.” Morrigan gave a small shrug. “I regret that I could not capture him alive, but these things do happen.”

Thule looked at the key in his hand. Sera had told him the elven servants were whispering about issues in the servants’ quarters. “I think I know where to try this key first.”

“Proceed with caution, Inquisitor. Enemies abound here, not all of them aligned with Tevinter.” Her eyes cut in his direction. “What is the former Court Enchanter doing this evening? To whom does she speak? What webs does she weave? ‘Tis something to think on, is it not?” 

Thule wasn’t worried about Vivienne … at least, not enough to fall for such a blatant attempt to make him do so. She was out for her own power, that was something she had never hidden from him, but it was power on her terms. She didn’t want to be Inquisitor, or to topple the Inquisition. Of that he was sure. “No doubt up to something she doesn’t want me to know about,” he said to Morrigan. “I have far greater concerns this evening.”

“Far be it from me to tell you your business, Inquisitor.” Morrigan touched a door in front of them, pushing it open, and there they were in the ballroom, the people dancing. Morrigan smiled, watching them, a calculating smile. “Do say hello to your spymaster for me.”

She didn’t wait for his response, moving gracefully through the crowd. Thule watched the eyes watching her for a moment—suspicious eyes, hungry eyes, angry eyes, covetous eyes, frightened eyes—and then made his own way amongst them, hunting for the red jacket and dark hair that meant Cassandra. Partially to tell her he needed her help in the servants’ quarters, and partially because this time spent with Morrigan, who wore danger like a perfume, had made him long for the safety and comfort of Cassandra’s presence.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Lilias found Alistair wending his way through the nobility, and was warmed all through by the way his face brightened when he saw her. “Just the person I was looking for! I’m sorry that took so long. Maker, that man can talk.”

“That’s pretty funny, coming from you.”

He grinned. “True, I’ve been known to ramble a bit now and again.” Alistair extended his arm to her. “Would you care to dance? I tend to step on the ladies’ toes, but it’s expected, and you’re the only person here I have any interest in dancing with.”

If he had injected emotion or seduction into the remark, Lilias would have been uncomfortable, but he said it in such a matter-of-fact tone that she couldn’t help but agree with him. Of everyone here, he was the only person she wanted to dance with as well. These past few days traveling from Skyhold, and here tonight, she was remembering what had first drawn her to him in Kirkwall, other than his looks, that was. His openness, his genuine good humor, his jokes, how easy it was to be comfortable with him, the way he made her laugh as she hadn’t done in ages. There were so many ways in which he reminded her of Carver, or her father, it almost felt like being with family.

She tried her best not to think of the end of it all, of the building of desire, that night in her room, the touch of his hands and the taste of his skin, or of the rough whisper in the dark that had ended everything. They were new again, starting over, and none of that existed for the moment.

Lilias followed Alistair out onto the dance floor, glad it was a relatively simple dance. Her mother had taught her the rudiments, growing up, and between Varric and Bodahn they had drummed a few of these intricate dances into her head when she was named Champion and expected to attend such gatherings as these, but she was nowhere near as practiced as most of the people on the floor. Of course, neither was Alistair—he hadn’t been exaggerating when he promised to stomp on her feet.

Finally they got into some kind of rhythm, sweeping around the floor. “Where were you before?” Alistair asked. “Once I got disentangled from Bann Tinsler, I must have looked for you for an hour.”

“I was summoned by the Empress.”

“Really? By Celene herself? What did she want to talk to you about?”

Remembering the conversation, Lilias flushed. “You.”

“Me? Maker,” Alistair groaned. “She isn’t still on about that, is she?”

“What, wanting to marry you and create some massive southern kingdom under your joint rule? The topic did come up.”

Alistair scowled. “Her rule, you mean, with me as her grinning puppet. I know I’m not the best king Ferelden’s ever had, but even I know you don’t marry into the royalty of the nation your country was conquered by just a generation ago.” 

“A good rule,” Lilias agreed.

“I hope you told her never, no way, and uh-uh, in that order.”

“She told herself, actually. She … had been watching us, and … asked me what we were doing here together. You’ll …” Lilias cleared her throat. “You’ll be glad to know she told me she was withdrawing any claim on you.”

“She did? Why?”

“To … avoid breaking my heart.”

Alistair stared at her in surprise. “Well, what do you know. The Empress has a heart.”

“Or claims to,” Lilias agreed. She hesitated, then said, “I think … I think she’s lonely.”

He considered that, his head tilted to the side as he thought about it. “You’re probably right. I’m lonely, myself, and I don’t have the added pressures of the Game, or multiple claimants to the throne.”

“Are you?” Lilias forgot herself to look at him, intrigued and saddened by how easily and naturally he had made the admission.

“Yes. Very much so.”

“Is that why you’re still here? With the Inquisition, I mean.”

“That, and … other reasons.”

“Me.”

“You.” The word was little more than a breath, and Lilias realized they had stopped moving and were standing in the corner of the dance floor, staring at one another. She wanted to kiss him—she was afraid to kiss him—she wanted—

And then someone brushed against her back, murmuring an apology, and the moment was broken. Alistair was staring off over her shoulder as if he had seen a ghost.

“What? What is it?” The look on his face was like icy water down her back.

“Someone … I thought I would never see again.”

“Someone from the Blight,” Lilias said bitterly. “Someone who knew Leyden.”

At least he had the grace to admit it. “Yes.”

“Go, then.”

He hesitated only a moment, looking at her as though he wanted to protest that it wasn’t what she thought, but then, mercifully, he thought better of it, and was gone. Lilias made her way off the dance floor, looking for a dark corner to hide in, wishing she had never come.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The blood was pounding in Alistair’s head as he moved through the crowd after Morrigan. How could it have been Morrigan? Here, in Orlais, in the Winter Palace, in a ball gown? It was impossible. But that could have been no one else but Morrigan. It must be her.

He was practically pushing people out of his way in his hurry, barely aware of the displeased whispers he left in his wake. Let them stare at the rude and clumsy Fereldan king. He had never expected to see Morrigan again, and little as he liked her, Leyden had been her friend. Maybe she knew … something. Anything. He didn’t even know what he expected her to know—he only knew he had to reach her, to talk to her.

At last, he found her on the stairs that led down to the outer gardens. Morrigan stopped to look at him, her eyes holding the same amused, arrogant, patronizing expression they had always held. Maker, how he remembered—and hated—that look. “Alistair.”

“Morrigan, what are you doing here?”

“Here? In Orlais, or at the ball?”

“Either. Both! Where have you been all this time?”

She smiled, that enigmatic and secretive smile that made him want to choke her. Alistair took a long breath, and then another. How was it possible that he had forgotten how maddening she was?

“Fine, so you’re not going to tell me where you’ve been. Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

“I am surprised you didn’t know. Did Celene never mention me to you, during all your long … tete-a-tetes?”

“You know perfectly well there have been none of those, or you do if you know Celene that well. Why do you know Celene that well?”

“I am her ‘occult advisor’.”

He stared at her. “Of course you are. I should have guessed that after you abandoned us—abandoned _her_ —you’d find some way to land on your feet.”

“Naturally. A person’s first responsibility is to themselves, wouldn’t you say, Your Majesty?” She tipped her head to the side, an expression of exaggerated sympathy on her face. “And after all this time, still carrying that sodden torch? Did your Leyden deserve such devotion? I wonder.”

“Don’t speak of her if you’re just going to …” He didn’t even have the words for what he would do if she started slandering Leyden just for fun.

“So you _are_ still carrying the torch. I wonder what you would say if you knew …” Morrigan dropped the words in front of him almost gaily, but her eyes were deadly serious, the eyes of a predator toying with its prey.

And even though he knew that was what she was doing, he couldn’t stop himself from pouncing on the words, lying there before him shiny and tempting. “If I knew what?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” he insisted doggedly. “You meant something. Tell me!”

She stayed silent, her very stillness an eloquent reminder that he had never been able to force her to do anything. At last, she said softly, “What would it have been worth to you, Your Majesty, to save her life? What would you have been willing to do? To what lengths would you have gone? I very much wonder.”

“What do you mean?” She was walking away from him, leaving him here with only her hints and innuendoes to cling to, and he couldn’t bear it. “Morrigan!” he shouted.

And then she touched a panel in the wall and was gone, where he couldn’t follow, and Alistair stood in the midst of the tangled vines that still held him, despite all his attempts to cut through them.


	31. The Grand Duchess

Leliana was just emerging from a hasty search of the servants’ quarters when she saw Alistair coming for her. She remembered that particular thunderous expression from the Blight, and sighed. The last thing she needed right now was to have to talk down the King of Ferelden, but it seemed she couldn’t avoid it.

“What don’t I know?” he snapped when he came close to her.

Part of her wanted very much to say something acerbic, but that was what Morrigan would have done, and the last thing Leliana wanted was to be like—ah. She understood now. “How is Morrigan?”

“She appears not to have changed at all.”

“You can’t be surprised by that.”

He paused, thinking it over. “No, I suppose I’m not.”

“I see she has managed to get under your skin.” Leliana left the “as usual” to be inferred rather than stating it outright.

He came closer to her, moving lightly, and Leliana remembered that under the silks of the king lay a powerful warrior. For a moment, she was almost nervous as he loomed over her—but this was Alistair. She knew him too well to be frightened of him.

“Tell me what happened the night Morrigan left,” he said.

Leliana swallowed. She couldn’t tell him about that. Not now; not here. She wasn’t even sure how she felt about Leyden having given up on life so thoroughly that she wouldn’t even try to save herself—but she knew as surely as it was possible to know that the truth would weigh heavily on Alistair. Perhaps it would be the straw that broke him. Something Morrigan had clearly sensed; she must have said something to him. 

“Tell me,” Alistair repeated.

“No.” He scowled, ready to insist again, and hastily Leliana added, “Not here. When we go back to Skyhold, I promise I will tell you everything I know … but I cannot talk about this tonight. Too much is at stake. If we lose focus, we could lose everything. And you know what everything means; few know better.”

That got to him. Leliana could see his shoulders relax as he stepped back from her. “Then there is something to tell.”

“I—yes.”

“And you promise to tell me at Skyhold.”

“Yes. You have my word.”

“Very well.” He clipped the words off in a very terse, un-Alistair-like fashion, and turned on his heel and marched away, leaving Leliana sagging against the door. It was so long ago now. She had put Leyden away, or she thought she had. Why did this still bother her? She couldn’t afford to let this affect her tonight of all nights; she had to let it go.

From the shadows, a voice spoke. “What was that about?”

Leliana jumped—a sure sign that she was well and truly off her game—and then relaxed as she recognized the voice as Nathaniel Howe’s. “Nothing I care to speak about.”

“He seemed very angry.”

“He has reason to be, more reason than even he knows. And … the woman who hinted of it to him is poison, especially for him. Corrosive and ugly, spreading through the veins like—“ Too late she remembered she was speaking to a Grey Warden.

Nathaniel chuckled softly. “I think I know something of what that’s like.” 

“Sorry.”

“No need to be; you didn’t make me a Warden. Caron made me choose: my life … or my life. Given up to death or to the Wardens. Not much difference, really.”

“That … seemed to be how Bethany felt as well,” Leliana said slowly. “Alistair always thought of it as a privilege.”

“Some do,” Nathaniel agreed.

“But most don’t?”

“In my experience.” He nodded at the door behind her, and in a different tone said, “You found the bodies?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw the Venatori?”

“Yes.”

“Neither Briala nor Gaspard seems to gain any advantage from allying with Tevinter.”

“No,” Leliana agreed. “So what do you recommend?”

He smiled. “You’re the spymaster.”

“You seem to know a few things about it yourself.”

“One or two.”

“Then let’s go see who has the ear of the Empress and a taste for the finer things in life.”

“After you.”  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Lilias stood in the middle of the ballroom, feeling lost in a sea of people. Were they all whispering about her behind the masks they wore? Were they laughing at her for being fool enough to even consider trusting her heart to a man who no longer had one? She couldn’t have blamed them if they were.

A voice purred at her elbow, “The Champion of Kirkwall. What a pleasant and unexpected addition to our party. We are so honored you could attend.”

She turned to see the striking woman who had stood at the Empress’s elbow when she was presented. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“No, so we haven’t. I am Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons.”

“A pleasure to meet you. Lilias Hawke.”

Florianne gave her a deep curtsy. “And you are here as part of the Inquisition?”

“More or less,” Lilias said, not entirely sure herself what purpose the Inquisition had brought her for.

“But you are not a member of that entity?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Indeed.” The music changed, and Florianne beckoned to the dance floor. “Come, dance with me. We shall make a sensation.”

They would indeed. Lilias wasn’t sure she wanted to be part of a sensation, but she also didn’t think that it was wise in any way to be refusing the Grand Duchess. “By all means.”

There were indeed murmurs when they took their places amongst the dancers and bowed to one another, and Lilias decided that this would be the best dance she had ever danced. She would show these snooty Orlesians what the Champion of Kirkwall was capable of.

“You dance so well, Champion.”

“I had good teachers.” She thought of Varric and smiled—because the alternative was to think of Alistair and cry, and she was not going to do that. Not here, anyway.

“And you hide your pain well,” Florianne observed. “That is wise. Many here would use it against you at a moment’s notice.”

“My pain?” Lilias asked, as if she didn’t know what the Grand Duchess was talking about.

“Yes. The King of Ferelden is … perhaps less gentlemanly than he might be, no? Or so my cousin has said.” 

“Has she? That didn’t seem to be her impression of him when I spoke to her earlier.”

Was it her imagination, or did the news of her chat with the Empress come as a surprise to Florianne? It seemed so for a moment, then Florianne simpered. “Celene has been raised to say what everyone wishes to hear from her. It is the basis of the Game, something every child in Orlais learns from the cradle.”

“I see. In Ferelden, we’re taught to speak the truth.”

The Grand Duchess laughed lightly, but there was something brittle in it, something that set Lilias’s teeth on edge. “So I understand. It is so refreshing to be in the company of one who has nothing to conceal.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all. I simply hate to see someone so—powerful trampled on. The tales of your exploits have traveled far and wide, Champion, and seeing you now, I can truly understand them. Tell me, if there was a way to regain your position, your standing, perhaps even exceed it … would you take it?”

Lilias’s immediate answer was no; nothing about being a noble in Kirkwall had ever made her happy … or, at least, not for long. But Florianne was going somewhere with this, and Lilias was intrigued enough to play along. “Possibly,” she said. “I suppose it would depend on what would be expected of me.”

“You are in favor of change, are you not?”

“Change is often good—when things stay the same, they can become stagnant, and stagnant waters breed disease.”

Florianne laughed, and heads turned, watching them as they twirled on the dance floor. “Yes. I could not have put it better myself. Tell me, Champion, do you feel the eyes on you? They are waiting for you to make a misstep. Do you even know who amongst these people to trust?”

Lilias thought immediately of Alistair, but of course, that was impossible now. Had always been impossible, if she was being honest with herself. Varric, naturally, but he wasn’t here. She opted instead to take the game to the Grand Duchess. “I might ask the same of you.”

They were moving smoothly together in the intricate steps of the dance. Florianne leaned forward and whispered in Lilias’s ear, “In the Winter Palace, everyone is alone. Unless, of course, they make a powerful friend.”

As the music drew to a close, Lilias dipped the Grand Duchess, holding her easily, feeling the old strength coming back to her. “And if one has a powerful friend that they can trust?”

“Then one should stand ready to assist their friend in a time of need.” They straightened, and Florianne curtsyed to Lilias. “A most enjoyable dance, Champion. I look forward to repeating it.”

Returning the curtsy, Lilias said, “As do I.”

“If you seek proof of whom to trust, perhaps you could look in the Royal Wing,” Florianne suggested softly. She disappeared amongst the partygoers, leaving Lilias to look after her with concern. It sounded to her as though she had just been invited to join the plot against the Empress. She would have to find a way to discreetly tell the Inquisition.

She caught sight of Sera, the odd elf the Inquisitor had brought along, and signaled her to a quiet corner, telling her everything.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen had never spent a more frustrating evening. He had finally managed to find an innocent glass of water—a surprisingly difficult thing to procure in the Winter Palace—and taken a drop of Dagna’s potion, so his headache had receded, but otherwise he felt decorative and useless, two things he was decidedly not used to.

It was a relief to him to gather in a corner of the ballroom with Josephine and Leliana and the Inquisitor. Leliana seemed energized, her blue eyes very bright. Josephine was distracted, looking around nervously and constantly tugging at her jacket. Only the Inquisitor appeared as usual, cheerful and determined and dependable. Cullen wondered how he did it—he must feel as much a fish out of water as Cullen did, and yet he didn’t show it.

“What do we know?” Thule demanded.

As they all began to put forth what they had learned, Sera came up, tugging at Cullen’s sleeve until he bent down so she could whisper in his ear.

“Champion’s been propositioned by the Grand Duchess. All very hush-hush fancy fish, but she thinks Her Royal Hairdo has something up her sleeve. Check the Royal Wing.”

He nodded to Sera to confirm that he had heard her, and she disappeared again. While her methods were unconventional, there was no doubt the elf was useful to have around.

Cullen repeated what she had told him to the others, and they all nodded. It seemed everyone had found a reason to be concerned about the Grand Duchess this evening. “So we can assume she’ll make the attack on the Empress tonight?”

Everyone nodded soberly.

“But we can’t warn Celene—she needs these peace talks to succeed, and fleeing would only give Gaspard an advantage,” Josephine said helplessly.

Leliana sighed. “Then perhaps we shouldn’t step in.”

Thule’s eyebrows flew up. “You mean that?” She nodded, and he shook his head. “I can’t just stand by and let her die, not if I know in advance. That—that would make me as bad as Corypheus.”

For a moment, Cullen thought Leliana would argue, but she nodded. “I understand. But remember that what Corypheus wants, ultimately, is chaos. Even with Celene alive, he can still have that. Whatever we do, there must be no question of Florianne’s guilt, or we cannot touch her.”

“More than that,” Cullen put in. “We not only have to save the Empress and gain proof of Florianne’s complicity, we must also make certain the Empress succeeds in the peace talks. We must settle Orlais’ civil war tonight, or we leave Corypheus the advantage he wants.”

“All right, then.” Thule nodded. “I’ll go to the Royal Wing and see what’s there. Leliana, you go talk to Briala; Cullen, you take Gaspard; Josephine, find Alistair and make sure he’s ready to join the negotiations. The King of Ferelden’s opinion will have to help.”

Knowing Alistair, Cullen wasn’t so sure. But he was a weapon in their arsenal, and they would have to use him as such. He nodded to the others and set off through the crowd to find Gaspard, hoping he wouldn’t have to be the one to tell the Grand Duke they had just decided to keep him off the throne.


	32. Pulling the Reins

Thule took his team to the Royal Wing, hoping their exit from the ball had been discreet enough to go largely unnoticed by the other partiers. Sera had been bouncing around all night; he pitied anyone who had been assigned to watch her. No doubt she had worn out a spy or two over the course of the evening. 

Cassandra moved at his side, looking glad to be out of the fancier portion of the ball. Watching her, Thule felt a keen sense of loss—he would very much have liked to dance with her, and he had the feeling his chances had largely passed him by.

“I haven’t seen you dancing this evening, Lady Cassandra,” he said softly as they worked their way through the Royal Wing.

She looked down at him, scowling. “I would not give any of these popinjays the satisfaction.”

He glanced back—Sera was rifling through a chest, and Vivienne had pulled a book off a shelf and was leafing through it avidly. Using the moment, he took Cassandra’s hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of it. “And if the person who asked was not a popinjay?” He hoped she didn’t think such a thing of him. Other disparaging terms, possibly, but not that one.

“I—“ She was looking down at their joined hands, at his thumb moving over her skin, as though mesmerized. “This is …” Cassandra cleared her throat abruptly and pulled her hand from his. “This is hardly the time. We are here to find a killer, not to dance.”

Thule sighed. Vivienne had snorted and put the book back, and Sera was prancing toward them with a shiny new belt fastened around her waist. The moment was gone. “If we find the killer, I may ask you again.”

She gave him a small, wry smile that he found absolutely delightful. “I stand warned, Inquisitor.”

The Royal Wing was largely abandoned, but in the gardens they found a man, a mercenary, by the looks of him, bound to a beam, yelling at the top of his lungs. Sera made quick work of the ropes that held him, and he got up, still shouting about Gaspard.

“The Grand Duke left you here?” Cassandra asked.

“The bastard. I gave him my bill, and this is what happens! He sent his sister to speak to me, and next thing I know everything goes black. I wake up, and … here I am.”

“Florianne,” Vivienne said, her tone almost admiring. “She appears to have been pulling the reins all along.”

“No, no,” said the mercenary, his accent unmistakably Fereldan. “It had to be Gaspard. He wanted to move on the palace tonight, but he didn’t have enough of them fancy chevaliers. So he hired me and my men—offered us triple our usual pay. Then of course, didn’t cough it up. Stinking poncy cheesemongers!”

“Impressively ruthless,” Cassandra said, sighing. “If predictable.”

“Wait … we’re after one assassin, right? Do we just let the rest go at it?” Sera asked. “Tell them to queue up?”

There was an itch in the center of Thule’s palm, and he looked down at his hand, seeing the Anchor crackling. A rift was about to open; had to be.

He looked at the mercenary. “You wait for me in the ballroom.” The man hurried off without waiting to be asked twice.

The rift split the air in front of them, and on a balcony above their heads Duchesse Florianne appeared. “Inquisitor, welcome to my private party! I wasn’t certain you would attend, but I did have high hopes. Hawke was a surprising challenge to read—I had no idea if she had taken my bait, or if she would investigate my hint on her own. I would have had to kill her, of course, and then blame it on you … and my brother.” She sighed. “It would have been such fun. Not as much fun as this, of course, but still. Such a pity I did not have time to dance with you. I have never danced with a dwarf; it must be quite an experience.”

“You have no idea,” Thule growled.

Florianne smiled. “If Corypheus wasn’t so insistent on gaining that mark for himself, perhaps I would keep you, but my orders are clear. Kill you, kill the Empress. And I would so hate to disappoint him.”

“You would kill your own cousin on behalf of that madman?” Cassandra shouted, outraged.

“Her death is but a stepping stone on a path to a better world. Corypheus will enter the Black City and claim his godhood, and then all of Thedas will bow before him—and before those who stand at his side.”

“He will cast you aside, my dear, like the worthless scrap that you are,” Vivienne said coolly. “And in your last moments you will know despair.”

“He will give me all of Thedas to rule!”

Sera laughed. “As if. Coryphellus give up power? Yeah, and I’m a biscuit.”

The rift was opening, demons beginning to pour from it. Sera’s arrow found the first, and Vivienne’s lightning the second, but there were more. Thule raised the Anchor, straining against the rift.  
Florianne’s laugh rose above the sounds of the demons clustering on the other side of the rift. “In their darkest dreams, no one imagines I would assassinate Celene myself. And you, I’m afraid, will be too occupied to tell them. I will be back, Inquisitor, for that hand of yours.” And she hurried off.

“We must warn the others!” Cassandra shouted at him. 

He shook his head. “No time; we have to close the rift. Besides, I think someone already has.” He was hoping against hope that the shadow he had seen accompanying them had been who he thought it was; it had disappeared about the time Florianne first mentioned Corypheus’s name. 

Either way, the rift was their first task, and they had to close it quickly and get into the ballroom. Thule focused all his energy on the mark, gritting his teeth as the rift fought against its closing.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana had subtly made her way around the ballroom, one eye open for traps and one ear pricked for juicy gossip the Inquisition could use. She was coming around on a second pass, noting with approval Cullen in the center of a bevy of Orlesian beauties, doing his part to be a distraction, when she felt a presence joining her, and looked down at her shining boots to see Nathaniel Howe’s soft shoes padding next to her.

“You have news?” she asked softly.

“The Inquisitor is in the Royal Gardens, closing a rift.”

“A rift here?” She was startled enough to look up at him.

“Yes. Courtesy of the Grand Duchess. She’s coming to kill the Empress.”

“I knew it.” Leliana swore softly under her breath, angry at herself for not getting ahead of Florianne. She glanced at Nathaniel. “Stay with me while I do this—I may need an extra pair of hands.”

“My pleasure,” he said grimly.

Florianne and Gaspard were entering the room, both moving with stately grace. No doubt Florianne was confident no one suspected what she was about to do, but she had been rather clumsy, after all. Gaspard was too confident he could win with brute force; Briala had nothing to gain by assassinating the Empress, as Gaspard would not be nearly as amenable to her cause. That left Florianne as the next most obvious candidate.

Nathaniel nudged Leliana. “The Empress is coming out to give her speech.”

“Then there is no time.” Leliana approached the Grand Duchess, taking her arm. Nathaniel stood forbiddingly on Florianne’s other side, while Gaspard looked at both of them in confusion. “I believe the show is over, Your Grace. I will not allow you near enough the Empress to do her harm.”

“Lady Nightingale, have you been drinking? Perhaps you have had too much!” Florianne protested. She looked over Leliana’s shoulder and her face paled. Without looking, Leliana guessed that the Inquisitor must have returned. 

“Has your plan failed, Your Grace? Our Inquisitor is a remarkably surprising—and resourceful—man.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Haven’t you?” Nathaniel asked. “Because I heard you boasting that no one would suspect that you intended to assassinate the Empress yourself; I heard you promise to take the Inquisitor’s hand to Corypheus. And so did they.” He indicated Cassandra and Vivienne. Sera was nowhere to be seen—probably somewhere with an arrow aimed at Florianne’s head, Leliana imagined. “The word of a Grey Warden is worth very little right at the moment,” Nathaniel continued, “but the word of the former Court Enchanter and of Princess Cassandra Pentaghast? I believe everyone here will accept that.”

There was a murmur through the crowd, assenting and horrified and titillated. Gaspard stepped away from his sister, looking at her with anger and sorrow.

“Stories, all of them, meant to make the Inquisition look good,” Florianne said desperately. “No one will believe any of you!”

Above their heads Celene had taken her place, ready to begin her speech. She looked down at her cousin with disappointment. “That will be for a judge to decide,” she said.

Florianne looked at her brother, her eyes pleading with him. He took another step back, shaking his head. Nathaniel caught Florianne’s elbow in his grip, and on the other side, Leliana drew a small dagger and pressed it against the Grand Duchess’s ribs. “Come along quietly, or I will paint the dance floor with your blood.”

Whether she would have done it or not was debatable—blood at a ball was a bit over the top, after all—but Florianne believed her. She sagged in their grip, the fight gone out of her, and Leliana released her to three of Celene’s guards, who hauled her away.

Celene nodded at Leliana in recognition of what she had done, stepping in before Florianne could go through with her plan.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
On the edge of the crowd, Alistair had watched it all, feeling helpless and foolish and somewhat lost—which was, of course, just when Celene lifted her head and caught his eye. She motioned him to come closer.

“Your Majesty, perhaps you would accompany me to the negotiations? I would feel safer with you at my side, and perhaps you may have something to add to the discussion.” She glanced past him. “You, too, Inquisitor, if you would.”

Thule nodded, and so of course Alistair had to agree as well … not that he truly would have had another option, not when the most powerful monarch in Thedas beckoned. They walked on either side of Celene out onto the balcony, where Gaspard and Briala waited.

The two of them were already arguing about Florianne and how much Gaspard had—or should have—known about her plans.

“Your sister attempted regicide in front of the entire court, Gaspard!”

“You are the spymaster—if anyone should have known this atrocity was coming, it was you!”

“Ah! Then you do not deny your involvement!” Briala cried triumphantly.

“Did you know, Gaspard?” Thule asked, his voice cutting through the air, quiet though it was.

“Of course not! Florianne never took me into her confidence.” Gaspard flung out an arm, pointing at Briala. “But this woman must have stumbled across Florianne’s plans, and she said nothing. That makes her complicit!”

“I don’t know which I find more amusing—that you seem to think I am all-seeing, or that you continue to deny your own involvement.”

“Enough!” Celene said, cutting the air sharply with the side of her hand. “We will not bicker while Tevinter plots against the safety of our nation.” She glanced sideways at Alistair. “Indeed, the safety of all southern Thedas. We will have answers.”

“I’m told Gaspard was sneaking mercenaries into the palace all night, intending to attack,” Thule said.

“And the Inquisition had no troops stationed anywhere in the vicinity?” Gaspard snorted. “I doubt it.”

“The fact is that yours were already here,” Alistair pointed out. “And I understand some of your mercenaries were Fereldan. We do not look kindly on being brought into an attempted coup on foreign soil.” He was surprised at how royal he sounded; apparently he had learned a few things over his time as king. 

“Hired thugs?” Celene said in disappointment. “I didn’t expect you to stoop so low, cousin.” She seemed genuinely grieved at the betrayal of both her cousins.

“I understand that the Grand Duke also attempted to threaten the Council of Heralds in order to make them gift him the Crown,” Alistair said. He understood Gaspard, indeed, rather liked him, but Gaspard reminded him of himself, and no one knew better what a disaster he had been on the throne. The fact that Gaspard had needed to stoop to threats and bullying only spoke to what a poor choice he would be to lead Orlais, home of the Great Game.

“If the worst you can say of me is that I am a bully, Your Majesty, I must not be very bad.”

“Ah, Gaspard, if only that was the worst. But you have conspired against me, with your men if not with your sister, and snuck men into my home in an attempt to take by sudden attack what you could not win on the battlefield, or by diplomacy. No one in Orlais would respect that, you know it as well as I.” Celene sighed. “I have no choice but to charge you with treason and declare you an enemy of the empire.”

Gaspard’s shoulders slumped. He had gambled and lost, but he was soldier enough to know when he had been beaten. 

“You are hereby sentenced to death,” Celene continued.

“Wait!” Alistair spoke before he thought. “You would condemn one of your finest generals to die? What will you do if Orlais is attacked?” As Celene stiffened next to him, he realized too late which country would be considered most likely to be doing the attacking, and he hastened to add, “Corypheus remains a threat, and we don’t know how involved Tevinter was or what they might do.”

“Do you ask this as a favor, Your Majesty?” Celene asked softly.

Alistair wished he had had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. He couldn’t ask Celene for a favor—what she would want in return would certainly be more than he was willing to give. But he couldn’t call back his words, either, without appearing to be afraid of Orlais.

Mercifully, blessedly, Thule stepped in. “I ask it as a favor, Empress Celene. On behalf of the Inquisition.” The words “which has saved your life tonight” hung in the air, unspoken, but the implication was clear.

Celene smiled, aware that he had adroitly taken the favor from her hands and made of it something he had already earned rather than something she could hold over his head, and in the process cemented Alistair’s good will by saving him from the consequences of his own big mouth. “I have no choice but to grant your request, Inquisitor, and I do so, gladly, and with thanks for what you and your people have done for me this evening.” She looked at Gaspard. “I will let you live, cousin, but you will be exiled, and constrained from lifting a weapon against Orlais. If you enter the empire again, your life is forfeit.”

He gave them all an exaggerated bow. “You are too generous.” He glared at the guards who came for him, refusing to allow them to take his arms and draw him away as they tried to do. He walked off between them, his bearing impeccable.

“A shame,” Celene said softly, watching him go.

“And I? What will you do with me, Celene?” Briala asked.

Alistair could tell by the look on Thule’s face that he had weapons against the elf, too, but didn’t want to use them unless he needed to.

“If you and your people will work with me, I will do what I can for them. You know that.” There was a softness in Celene’s eyes under her mask as she regarded the elf, and Alistair remembered the rumors that painted Briala as the Empress’s lover. 

Briala held the look for a long moment, then bowed her head. “I will do what I can.”

At a nod from Celene, she left them alone on the balcony. 

“Inquisitor, I owe you my life. And Orlais owes you its future. We will not forget. You can count on our assistance in your fight against Corypheus.” She looked at Alistair. “And you … my friend, you have much still to learn, about … many things, but women most of all. It is past time that you decide what you want and go after it.”

“I … yes, you’re probably right.” He had the sense that she meant Lilias, but also more than that. Or was it only that a chord had been touched in him, awakening thoughts and longings he had believed long dead? “For the moment, I will continue to support the Inquisition against Corypheus. When that is over …” He nodded. “I will take your advice.”

Celene smiled at him, the most genuine smile he had ever seen from her. “Good. You are a good man, Your Majesty. Do not forget that.”

He found himself deeply touched, and for once grateful for the fate that had put him on the throne of Ferelden, that it had allowed him this close to a woman such as the Empress and a man such as the Inquisitor. If only he could be a king to match both of them.


	33. Princesses at the Ball

Leliana watched from the edge of the ballroom as the Empress and the Inquisitor stood together to speak to the crowd, as Celene openly promised her assistance to the Inquisition, and she breathed a deep, if unobtrusive, sigh of relief. Everyone around her was clapping, and she joined in, her gloved hands patting together almost silently.

The man standing next to her did not join in the applause. His sardonic expression hadn’t changed from the way he had looked when they arrived. “You’ve done well, but then, you know that.”

“Yes.” Leliana smiled. “I wasn’t certain he could do it.”

Nathaniel raised his eyebrows. “Yes, you were. You wouldn’t have risked this if you weren’t.”

She glanced at him sideways. “I think you flatter me by pretending to believe me more diabolically clever than I really am.”

“The Left Hand of the Divine? I’m willing to believe I have significantly underestimated you.”

“Your assistance was much appreciated.”

“Glad I could be of service.” He sketched a short, mocking bow. “To what use do you intend to put me next? Do you have anyone you need followed, spied upon, murdered in their sleep?”

“You jest, my friend. I would not trust any but the most tested operatives with any of those tasks.”

“As well you should not. What, then? Or am I free to go, free to make my way to Weisshaupt and get down on my knees and grovel for forgiveness?”

She looked at him sharply. “Your glibness does you no favors. You forget, I traveled with Oghren. We were friends. And here you stand, while he is— Perhaps you ought to be asked to grovel.”

“I forget nothing,” Nathaniel said. His jaw tensed, his eyes burning as he fought to keep himself under control. “And he was my friend as much as yours, as were they all. I have much to atone for … but those bastards at Weisshaupt deserve none of it. Had they helped in the Blight, perhaps things would be different. Had they done more for our branch of the Order than send a human abacus to spy on us and be certain we never spent a copper more than she allowed, perhaps things would be different. Had they answered a single one of the desperate messages we sent them, terrified that we were facing another Blight or that for some unfathomable reason we were all facing an early Calling at the same time … But they did nothing. We heard not a word from them.” His voice was softly venomous, so low that had she been standing one more step away from him Leliana would not have heard him. He stopped speaking abruptly, cutting off his words uncompromisingly.

“I didn’t know,” she said, the words feeling inadequate even as she said them.

“Did he?” His eyes were fixed on Alistair, across the room, standing near Lilias. “Did he know? Or was he too busy playing king and chasing women?”

Leliana shook her head. “Leave him out of this. The Blight cost him much—in a different way than it cost you, but cost him it did. He has yet to find his way out of its dark tunnels.”

“He’s not the only one.” Nathaniel looked down at his hands, fine, long-fingered archer’s hands. 

“Stay with us,” she said impulsively. “At Skyhold. We will find tasks for you.”

“Will you?” He glanced at her, then away. “I’m sure you will. I don’t need your pity.”

“It is not pity. It is efficiency. I do not like to let a resource go to waste.”

Nathaniel looked at her again, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I believe you don’t. Very well, I will stay on for the moment.”

“Good.”  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Josephine watched with satisfaction as the Inquisitor left the ballroom. He deserved a rest and some solitude—he had done very well. The nobility of Orlais as a whole was highly pleased with him; they had even come around to finding a dwarf as Herald of Andraste charmingly odd, and to congratulate themselves on their open-mindedness.

And she had gone the entire evening without meeting whichever dreadful Antivan lord her mother had seen fit to betroth her to, which had been a relief. That was the last thing she had wanted to have to concern herself with while still keeping an eye on the Empress and making certain that the Inquisition as a whole didn’t fail the Game utterly and spectacularly.

Perhaps this Lord Otranto hadn’t even managed to attend the ball. That would please her, to be able to put the whole thing out of her mind for some time yet to come. She had more than enough business to attend to without concerning herself with her own matrimonial future.

As the ballroom began to buzz with voices again, she searched for her sister Yvette, who had been making rather a fool of herself this evening, posing as an artist and pretending to sketch people in preparation for painting their portraits. She found her on the edge of the dance floor, giggling with a rather handsome young man. His hair was a trifle short for Josephine’s taste, very nearly shorn, but his eyes were a striking blue, especially when they caught hers as they were doing right now.

“Good evening,” she said.

“Oh, Josephine,” Yvette cried, “I have been having the most charming conversation with Lord Otranto. He spoke to the Inquisitor earlier.” She pouted at Josephine. “You wouldn’t let me speak with the Inquisitor.”

“That’s because you threatened to tell him all sorts of stor—“ Josephine caught herself in mid-word and turned to the man with the blue eyes. “Lord Otranto, did you say?”

He seemed to catch the displeasure in her tone, because he bowed with an apologetic look on his face. “I thought it best to wait until the end of the evening to introduce myself to you, Lady Josephine. The Inquisition seemed rather … distracted.”

“The Inquisition is always so busy,” Yvette agreed, giggling merrily. “I keep telling Josephine she should let me come and visit—I know it would give me such scope for my art—and she always says she is too busy.”

“Yvette, perhaps you would like to speak with Commander Cullen. I believe he is over there; tell him you’re my sister.” Cullen would not be pleased, and Josephine would owe him one, but she had to get her sister, and her sister’s flapping tongue, away from this man who thought he was going to marry her.

“Oh, yes!” And with a parting nod for Lord Otranto, Yvette disappeared into the crowd.

“My mother’s letter came as something of a surprise to me, my lord.” Under normal circumstances, Josephine would have been coquettish, but this was business, and she wanted Lord Otranto to know it.

“She suggested that it might. Surely a woman of your fine qualities is the subject of any number of proposals?”

She wished his eyes wouldn’t linger on her so. He had a very direct gaze. “Not so many that I cannot make my own refusals, my lord.”

“I see. You intend to refuse me without even getting to know me? For that matter, we haven’t even been properly introduced. My name is Adorno Ciel Otranto. You may call me Ciel, as we are, at least for the moment, betrothed.”

She nodded, pleased that he was being civilized about it. “Josephine Montilyet.”

“Does no one call you Josie?”

It was nice to hear her name in a proper Antivan accent again. She had forgotten how it rolled off the tongue. “Not if they wish me to answer,” she said, keeping her voice firm. Leliana was one of the few who could get away with the nickname.

“Very well, then, I will forbear. Although you look as though you could be Josie … under the right circumstances.” His voice dropped, husky and low.

Josephine found it difficult to glare at him appropriately. He certainly was exerting himself to be charming. “My lord—“

“Ciel,” he corrected, smiling gently at her.

“Ciel, then.” She hadn’t wanted to use his name—it sounded too much as though she was agreeing to this betrothal. “I haven’t the time to be betrothed right now. The Inquisition—“

He held up a hand. “I have no intention of dragging you off unwillingly into marriage. What I propose is this—you allow the engagement to stand, which will also have the benefit of keeping other marriage offers at bay. You agree to enter into a correspondence, so that we may get to know each other. And you agree to allow me to come visit you at Skyhold occasionally.”

She glanced at him in alarm. “Why at Skyhold?”

“Because that is where you live. Where else would I visit you?”

Josephine flushed. “Of course.”

“Will you consider it?”

His blue eyes were looking into hers, and she couldn’t quite find the heart to refuse him. “I will … give it some thought.”

“Good. Now, perhaps we may begin getting to know one another—while we dance?” He gestured to the dance floor. Josephine felt it would be churlish to refuse, so she accepted his proffered arm and allowed him to lead her onto the floor.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Lilias had sunk onto an empty couch, glad to be off her feet. The shoes Varric had bought for her weren’t terrible, but they were still fancy shoes rather than the more comfortable boots she usually wore. She was glad to tuck her feet underneath the couch and surreptitiously shift the shoes so that only her toes were in them.

She was less glad when she felt the couch give as Alistair sank down onto it next to her. 

“Whatever it is you’re going to say, I wish you’d save your breath,” she told him.

“I don’t blame you. It’s … there’s a woman who was with us during the Blight, a witch. She’s here. How she’s here, I don’t know, but she is, and … she infuriates me.”

“That’s why you took off in the middle of a ball, to chase after someone who infuriates you?”

“She—disappeared before we fought the Archdemon. I wanted to know why.”

Lilias turned to look at him, forgetting that she had told herself in no uncertain terms that she did not care what he had to say. “What difference does it make now?”

“What difference—?” Alistair’s mouth hung open, the question clearly so flummoxing that he had difficulty believing he had heard it correctly.

“That’s what I said. Nothing she has to tell you will change anything, so why do you care why she left?”

He closed his mouth with an audible click, and shook his head. “I just do.”

“You think maybe the fact that ten years later you’re still grasping at straws to prove that she could have been saved is your problem?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

“When it settles there and you figure out what to do with it, you let me know.” Lilias shoved her feet fully back in her shoes and stood up, leaving him sitting there alone.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cassandra watched the Empress’s occult advisor leave the balcony. What had she and the Inquisitor been talking about out there? Had she—she was very beautiful, in a feminine and frankly quite sexual way. Had Thule grown tired of pursuing someone as stiff and unbending as Cassandra and chosen to turn the attention of his clear blue eyes on this … apostate, instead?

She took herself in hand, shaking her head at herself. _You are too quick to jump to conclusions, Cassandra._ The inner voice was right, of course, but that did not make it easier to listen to it. But Thule was waiting for her—he had sent her a note, asking her to meet him out here. Not to show up would hurt him. She knew that as well as she knew the hilt of her sword.

So she went out onto the balcony, seeing the short, well-built figure leaning on the railing. “I can’t believe you escaped before me,” she said, not wanting to mention the other woman. “A fat count insisted on talking to me about soup for fifteen minutes.”

“Don’t you like soup?”

“Not as much as he did. I don’t believe anyone could like soup as much as he did.”

Thule smiled, lighting up his face in that way he had that made Cassandra want to smile back. But there was something in him still, a tension. He had been more relaxed earlier, when the Empress was still in danger. 

“Who was that woman?” Cassandra asked, forgetting that just moments earlier she had told herself not to mention it.

“Morrigan. Apparently we should ask Alistair about her.” Thule’s eyes were on the door Morrigan had left through. “Celene’s occult advisor … and now ours, or so she informs me. She’s a gift from the Empress to the Inquisition.”

“Do we not have enough mages?” Cassandra asked, feeling a frisson of alarm down her spine.

“Not of her particular talents. She intimates she has many.”

“Oh?”

Thule looked up at her, appearing struck by the chill in her tone. “Well, isn’t that the most delightful thing that’s happened all night.” His deep voice was low and caressing, that familiar laughing tone she refused to admit that she loved.

“What is?”

“You’re jealous.”

“I am not!”

He grinned widely. “I’m not going to argue with you.”

“Good. Because you would lose.”

“After things finally went according to plan, I would hate to end the night losing an argument to you, Lady Cassandra Philomela … what were the other names?”

“Not necessary,” Cassandra snapped. All her life she had hated to be laughed at, but when this red-headed dwarf with the dancing eyes did it, it made her feel … effervescent, and that sensation was unfamiliar enough that she fought it with all her might.

“If you say so.”

Cassandra sighed, looking up at the stars. It was a beautiful night, but she would rather be elsewhere. “I will be glad to go home to Skyhold. Won’t you?”

“Well, I’m not in such a hurry I can’t remember there’s something I haven’t done yet.” His voice was soft, and Cassandra looked down at him.

“What’s that?”

He bowed, holding out his hand, his manners impeccable. Was there nothing this man couldn’t do? “May I have this dance, Lady Cassandra?”

To be fully herself, she should tell him it was foolish … but she wasn’t feeling as though it was foolish. If she were honest with herself, there was nothing she would rather do than dance with the man before her, even if the top of his head only came up to her collarbones. “After all you’ve been through tonight, you still want to dance?”

“Oh, yes. More than anything.” His eyes were wide open to her, clear and guileless and soft. “Can you think of a better way to celebrate?”

Cassandra smiled, yielding. In truth, she could not. She held out her hand to him and they danced, there on the balcony, just the two of them.


	34. Back to Normal

In the light of dawn after a sleepless night, Alistair could have kicked himself. Lilias was right; what had he hoped to gain by running off after Morrigan? What could she tell him that would change anything? Leyden was gone. Nothing would change that. He had wasted ten years pining after her, and nothing would change that, either. He had made a tentative step toward a new start, toward putting things back with Lilias the way they had been, and now that had been destroyed as well, by his own foolishness.

If he was smart, which there was plenty of reason to assume he wasn’t, he’d go home to Denerim, take up the reins of his country again, and become the king Ferelden deserved.

The only problem with that was that he wasn’t the king Ferelden deserved. He never had been; there was every reason to assume he never would be. Worse, he didn’t want to be. He should never have allowed Leyden to put him on the throne. He should have stepped up and said Anora would be better for the country and that all he wanted was to be a Grey Warden. If he’d been a Warden, maybe he could have stopped this mess with Corypheus, saved some of his brothers and sisters in the Grey.

Instead, he had been weak and done what he was told, chosen the easy way out, and continued to do so by letting everyone else tell him how to govern his country. He couldn’t do that anymore—but he didn’t think he had it in him to step up and govern for himself, either. What did he know about running a country?

One thing was clear—he had a lot of thinking to do.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana was glad to be back on a horse, heading out of Orlais. Much as she loved the Game, it was tiring. She preferred life as the Inquisition’s Spymaster, at least for the moment. Although one could not stay out of the Game for too long and expect to continue playing it well. If you didn’t know the players thoroughly, it was all too easy to make a misstep and fall flat on your face.

“What an interesting event, don’t you think, my dear?” Vivienne had caught up to her. The mage rode sidesaddle, looking every inch the elegant lady, but she managed the horse expertly. It did not do to underestimate Madam de Fer.

“Very. And the Inquisition came out of it quite well.”

“A relief, indeed.”

“I did not see your Bastien in attendance.” Vivienne had been the Duke’s paramour for quite some time. It had surprised Leliana a bit that she was willing to leave him for the Inquisition.

“He is under the weather. A minor thing; I am certain it will pass.” But the lines around her eyes and the pinched set to her mouth belied the confident words. Leliana made a mental note to make some discreet inquiries about the nature of the Duke’s illness. “Your Grey Warden made quite the impression,” Vivienne said abruptly, changing the subject.

“He did well,” Leliana agreed. She decided that arguing that Nathaniel wasn’t “her” Grey Warden only underscored the idea in Vivienne’s mind, preferring to ignore the phrasing instead.

“A Fereldan noble, I understand?”

“Yes.” Leliana waited for the inevitable jibe, ready to bristle at it, but Vivienne nodded, instead.

“He’s a credit to his nation, then.”

Nathaniel was riding behind them; suddenly Leliana wanted to turn in the saddle and look back at him. She frowned at Vivienne. Had that been the purpose behind the conversation all along? Why would Vivienne want her distracted by a man?

Leliana frowned, and Vivienne smiled, spurring her horse ahead.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule had never been so happy to see anything as he was to see the stone towers of Skyhold appear on the horizon. He said so to Cullen, who was riding next to him, and the Commander agreed enthusiastically.

“If I never attend another ball, it will be too soon.”

“But you were such a hit.” Thule grinned. “All the girls will be talking about your curls and your shoulders and your … other attributes for months to come. Orlesian men will gnash their teeth, sick of hearing about the manly Fereldan who blushed so prettily.”

Cullen grunted in disgust. “Don’t remind me.”

Lowering his voice, Thule said, “And who can forget Josephine’s sister, flapping her handkerchief and promising to visit you in Skyhold. ‘Oh, Commander, what a lovely night!’” he cooed in a parody of Yvette’s falsetto voice and Antivan accent.

“If you keep that up, I will tell her you’re making fun of her sister,” Cullen snapped.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Well … possibly not,” Cullen conceded. “Still, keeping in mind the dignity of the Inquisition wouldn’t kill you.”

Thule shrugged. “I had the dignity of the Inquisition drummed into me pretty thoroughly before the ball, and during. Now that I’ve saved the Empress and the negotiations and perhaps all of Orlais, I think the business of the Inquisition will be my focus, and the dignity can go hang.”

“I think Josephine would find that even more shocking than your imitation of her sister.”

He nodded. “You’re probably right. And I don’t think I mean it anyway. I’m just … tired. And relieved. And ready to put all of that behind me.” He glanced over his shoulder at Cassandra. Ready to put everything behind him but the memory of a moonlight dance, he thought. That he would keep close to him.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
As soon as she was off the horse and had stretched her sore muscles, Lilias went looking for Varric. She found him at his table in the main hall, quill poised over a piece of paper.

Exuberantly, she rushed him. “You are amazing!”

He frowned, then remembered, and smiled. “You liked the dress?”

“Liked it? It was perfect. Stand up, you.”

He frowned again, tilting his head to look at her suspiciously. “You have that ‘you’re going to hug me’ look.”

“You don’t get hugged enough, Varric.”

“Is that my problem?”

“One of them.”

“Well, I’m glad one of us knows what it is.” He didn’t make any move to get up, though. Lilias looked down at the paper in front of him, noticing for the first time that it was blank.

“Are you all right?”

“Me? Fine. Never better.” But there was a thinness in his voice that only someone who had traipsed through the Deep Roads with him and spent countless nights getting drunk together and bled next to him in a thousand battles would recognize.

Lilias took the seat across from him. “You’re alone again.”

“Always.”

“Well, I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly. “It’ll be just like old times.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but these are decidedly new times.”

“Maybe so, but they have to be better if we’re together.”

He smiled at that. “Maybe so. Let’s go get drunk and find out.”

Lilias gave him an answering grin. “I’ll drink to that.”  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen went straight to the Undercroft. If he’d gone up to his office, he’d have been buried in paperwork in minutes, deeply engrossed in the issues and problems of the Inquisition, all the things that had been done in his absence that he was going to want to comment on. He’d kept in touch by raven while he was in Val Royeaux, but that wasn’t the same as being there himself.

But he wanted to speak to Dagna first, before he got distracted, so he resolutely refused to even look up at his office.

The main hall was bustling as always, and people kept catching him to congratulate him on how well things had gone in Val Royeaux. His first instinct was to deny having had anything to do with it—it had been Thule’s triumph more than anyone else’s—but that only kept people talking to him longer, so he switched to a muttered “thank you” and a restless tapping of the foot to indicate that he was in a hurry. Most people with the Inquisition were used to the Commander being in a hurry, so they got the message quickly.

At last he was pushing through the heavy door to the Undercroft, shutting it behind him and relaxing in the silence. Well, not precisely silence—Harritt’s hammer rang and the fire of the forge hissed and sizzled and Dagna’s merry voice rose above them both—but it was more peaceful than the buzz of voices on the upper floor.

He walked down the steps into the main work area, and couldn’t help smiling at the way Dagna’s face lit up at the sight of him.

“Cullen, you’re back! We heard about Val Royeaux and how well you all did there. Was the ball very long? Did the drops work on your headache? Are you glad to be home?”

Cullen grinned at her enthusiasm. “Yes, the ball was long, and yes, the drops worked, thank you, and yes, I am very glad to be home. Next time, I’ll take you with me, shall I?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’d do very well at a fancy ball.”

“I’m sure you would be fine; I’ve never seen a person you couldn’t talk to.”

Dagna laughed. “That’s true enough.”

“I only used the drops a couple of times, and I still have quite a bit left.”

“Good.” She tilted her head to the side, looking up at him with that faint frown that said she was thinking of her work again. Did he look like that when he was working, so utterly absorbed? he wondered. “Later after you’ve had a chance to catch up on all your work, maybe we can talk about the symptoms and how the drops worked—it’ll help me finetune the design.”

“Yes, thank you.” He didn’t understand how it all worked, but it pleased him to be helping her come up with a way to help other Templars. “And maybe a game of chess while we’re at it?”

Dagna’s smile lit her eyes. Had they always been that bright green? He couldn’t remember noticing before. “Yes, I’d like that.”  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Once Hawke had gone to bed, thoroughly toasted from a night at the Herald’s Rest, Varric settled back down in front of the fire. He’d get no sleep tonight, not in his empty bed. It was always like this when Bianca had come in and out of his life like a whirlwind. When she was gone, everything seemed cold and empty for a while. 

Sooner or later, it would go back to normal—it always did. And when you came down to it, he wouldn’t have wanted to miss the parts where he had her just to avoid the parts where he didn’t. She was worth it all … and pretty good motivation, to boot. He wrote better thinking about her. Not that Bianca would appreciate that. If she ever actually read his stuff, she would tell him it was trash and that he could do better things with his life than that …. and maybe he could. But writing his silly little stories made him happy and gave him something to think about that took his mind off the end of the world that always seemed to be hovering just over the horizon, and kept him from wondering what Bianca and her husband were up to. Most of the time.

He thought about Hawke and the almost feverish brightness in her eyes, and the confused, longing, wistful, unhappy looks she had gotten all night from the King of Ferelden. There was a couple who needed him to write them a happy ending … but it wasn’t going to be as easy as that, and that made him sad. Of everyone he knew, Hawke deserved happiness the most.

If he were writing her into a story, how would he make her happy? he wondered. He wouldn’t write himself a happy ending because the narrator didn’t get one, but he could write one for Hawke, and maybe he could even help make it come true.


	35. A New Divine

Alistair unpacked in his rooms, thinking how much more familiar they felt than his much more palatial version in the palace in Denerim. He had never bothered redecorating—in truth, he had never felt it was his place. To him, it was still Cailan’s bedroom he was sleeping in, and even though he disliked the garish furnishings his brother had chosen, he would have felt ghoulish replacing them.

Here, the decorations were more tasteful, the furnishing plain but of good quality. He knew Josephine was unhappy that he wouldn’t accept the larger suite kept for the most important guests, but he had pointed out to her, firmly, how thoroughly all those nice things would be lost on him and how much more the Inquisition needed to impress the next noble to ride in than it did him. She had at last acquiesced, and now he had his couple of comfortable rooms to spread out in, no better than any other minor dignitary.

A knock sounded at the door, and Panos came in, carrying a stack of messages that had arrived during their absence at Halamshiral.

Alistair groaned. “Already?”

“Apparently they have been arriving steadily all the time we were away, Your Majesty.”

“Of course they have. All from Teagan?”

Panos riffled through the stack, then nodded.

“Give me the most recent one, then.”

Alistair ripped it open and scanned the lines in Teagan’s fine handwriting. It was growing a touch straggly here and there, he noticed. His uncle was getting older. It made him sad—Teagan had always been the one with a sense of humor, the one to notice the disgrace that was Alistair and make him feel as though maybe he wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to Redcliffe. And now he was increasingly stuffy and angry and querulous.

The letter held all of those things, along with a stern lecture on Alistair’s laxity in having dropped all his responsibilities into Teagan’s lap, and a hint that if he came home with a bride— _finally_ —all would be forgiven.

“As if he really wants me back,” Alistair said bitterly. “He’s much happier running the country by himself than he would be if I were there bumbling around and getting in his way.”

Panos observed a discreet silence, as Alistair had expected he would, and Alistair sighed and sat down behind his desk to compose a reply.

_Dear Uncle,_  
_Got your letter. Am sorry you feel overwhelmed. Spoke to Celene; she seems well and isn’t dead, which was the goal. Still not marrying her. Also, not coming back to Denerim. Defeating Corypheus is the most important task facing Thedas right now, and the Inquisition can use the help. Actual help, with swords, that I’m good at, not face-saving help, with pens, that I’m awful at. You’re better at that than I am, you have the royal seal and my permission to use it, and we both know that you’d much rather I wasn’t hovering over your shoulder asking a thousand questions all the time._  
_As always, I’m sorry to have failed to live up to your expectations. It’s the only thing I’ve ever really managed to do, though, so I’d think you would be used to it by now._  
_Your very apologetic nephew,_  
_Alistair_

He sealed the letter and handed it off to Panos, who bowed and took it to be mailed. Alistair leaned back in his chair and sighed. He had told Teagan the whole truth, as far as it went, but how to tell him that he didn’t think he ever wanted to go back to Denerim at all? Could he even do that? Was it allowed? He didn’t know.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
In response to a summons from Josephine, Thule knocked on her office door. When he opened it, he found a Revered Mother, one he had never seen before, in the visitor’s chair. She nodded at him as he came in. “Inquisitor.”

“Revered Mother.”

“Mother Hillaire is here to—“

She cut Josephine off. “We are here to bring several people back to Val Royeaux. The matter is urgent.”

“I am well aware of that,” Josephine responded, a faint edge to her tone. “But as I have said, that is quite impossible at the moment. We will see to the matter as soon as possible.”

“And how soon will that be?”

“It is difficult to say. We are still searching for Corypheus.”

“And in the meantime I am to tell the council, what, that it must wait?” Mother Hillaire asked in outrage.

Thule sighed. “It appears a new crisis has popped up to take the place of the one we’ve just resolved?”

Josephine nodded. “Yes.”

“I am sorry to place this burden on your shoulders,” Mother Hillaire said stiffly, “but you are the only one who can help.”

“That seems to be a common opinion. What can I do for you?” Thule asked.

“You see, with the political situation put to rest, our minds have at last turned to a most important question: the next Divine.”

“I’m surprised such an important decision has waited this long.”

“With so many Grand Clerics lost at the Conclave, it has been difficult to put together a new Conclave, much less a slate of candidates. And now … we must have the Left and Right Hands of Divine Justinia V.”

“The Left and Right Hands?” Thule repeated. Leliana. And Cassandra. _His_ Cassandra. “Impossible.”

“I have already told you, Mother Hillaire, that Lady Leliana and Seeker Cassandra cannot be spared from their duties,” Josephine said. Her tone made it clear she was holding on to her patience with both hands.

“But surely with the support of the Empire, the Inquisition can get by without just two souls?” Mother Hillaire protested.

“We can’t get by without those particular two, no,” Thule told her. He crossed his arms, hoping the gesture would make his point seem even more inarguable. “And why do you need both of them?”

“They were Her Holiness’s two most trusted advisors. They represent her legacy, her hopes for peace in Thedas.”

“I would like to think the Inquisition does, as well,” Josephine pointed out.

Mother Hillaire continued as though Josephine hadn’t interrupted. “They could rally the remaining Grand Clerics to follow as no candidate from the clergy has been able to.”

It took Thule a moment to understand the implication she seemed to be making. Candidates? Did they want Leliana and Cassandra to become the Divine? He didn’t want to put the idea into her head if it wasn’t there, but he wanted to confirm that he’d heard her correctly. “Can you explain just what it is you’re asking of them?”

Mother Hillaire blinked in surprise. “Apparently, I have not made myself clear. We need them to serve as candidates for the role of Divine.”

Thule nearly took a step back, so shocked was he by the admission. He met Josephine’s eyes, seeing a sympathy there that said she understood what he was feeling. If Cassandra were to become Divine … well, that would end any chance of them ever having a relationship. If Leliana were to become Divine, the Inquisition would be crippled, possibly beyond recovery. He couldn’t allow this, certainly not now.

“Everyone with the political support to succeed Justinia perished with her. Those who remain are unable to gather the majority of votes from the Conclave of Grand Clerics. They have been deadlocked for entirely too long, and the Chantry remains leaderless, a condition that is not good for anyone.”

“How long does the Chantry need them for?”

Mother Hillaire frowned at him. Apparently his denial at the idea of losing Cassandra was making him thick-headed, because she certainly appeared to think she had given him enough information to answer that question. “Several months at least,” she said, as though she were speaking to a small child. “And if one of them is crowned Divine, she would not be returning to the Inquisition.”

“These are key members of the Inquisition. You’re talking about crippling our leadership.” Thule shook his head determinedly. “I can’t allow this.”

“For the sake of Thedas, we must ask you to make this sacrifice—“

Josephine cut in, sharply. “Not at this time.”

Mother Hillaire got to her feet. “I will be speaking with both of them during my stay here.”

“But of course.” Josephine got up, too, her courtly manner renewed. “We hope you enjoy your stay.”

Thule didn’t. He hoped she had a miserable time. But he conjured up a charming smile. “Yes, please let us know if there’s anything you require while you’re here.”

Mother Hillaire gave them both a chilly bow and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Thule sank into Josephine’s chair. “Andraste’s knickers! That’s the last thing I wanted to hear today. Or ever.”

“I know.” Josephine sat back down, smoothing her skirts. “I wish I could have dealt with her myself—but this is not going to go away. You had to know.”

“You’re right. I did.” He looked up at Josephine. “How long can I delay this?”

She frowned thoughtfully. “They have only sent one person so far, and she is relatively low level … and has no idea how to get what she wants. I would say another three rounds before it becomes crucial. Perhaps four months, maybe five?”

It was a reprieve, but not enough, and Josephine knew it.

“The real problem, Inquisitor, will be ambition. Once Mother Hillaire tells Leliana and Cassandra that they are candidates for Divine …” She shrugged. “When great power appears to be within your grasp, it is difficult not to reach for it.”

Thule groaned quietly to himself. She was right; both women wanted to change the world, and what better way to do it than as Divine?  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“Sister Nightingale, I beg you will reconsider—“

Leliana held up a hand, and Mother Hillaire stopped speaking. “I understand the situation perfectly well. For right now, the Inquisition must be my focus. If I leave, the pursuit of Corypheus will be set back, perhaps even foiled entirely. But I am, of course, sensitive to the needs of the Chantry and will consider your petition as soon as there is time to do so.”

Mother Hillaire gave some thought to arguing further, but apparently read Leliana’s set face correctly, because she bowed and made her way out of the Rookery.

Left alone, but for her scouts, Leliana leaned her elbows on the edge of the railing, looking far down below into Solas’s study. To be Divine! To take the reins of the Chantry and build it into a welcoming home for everyone who fled to its arms! Despite her firmness with the Revered Mother, Leliana was intoxicated by the idea—the power within the title and the seat on the Sunburst Throne, the extent to which her influence could lead. She could change so many things.

She was even further delighted that the seeds she had sown so carefully months ago had taken root. It had been she who had planted the idea that the next Divine needn’t be from the clergy, by the simple expedient of pooh-poohing the concept loudly before anyone else had brought it up. From that day to this one, and to this … well, it wasn’t an offer, but it could be. Cassandra had eyes for the Inquisitor; she wouldn’t be a serious threat. Yes, in many ways the Sunburst Throne appeared to be Leliana’s for the taking. If it was what she truly wanted …

“So what will we call you?” said the familiar voice at her elbow. “Hortensia V?”

Leliana smiled. Nathaniel appeared out of nowhere so easily, and so often, that she was no longer surprised when he did so. She wasn’t certain why, except that perhaps she understood best what he had been through, the shadows he carried. Alistair was darkened from what he was, but shadows stood little chance around the King’s head. He was too innocent at heart, too cheerful and simple. Nathaniel had great depths, which was why he sunk to them so often. “You heard, then?”

“That you’re being considered for Divine? Yes. I do hope you’ll pick something a bit less dowdy than Hortensia.”

“What do you think I should choose?”

He frowned. “Leliana suits you. It’s a pity you have to change it.”

She glanced at him sharply, but he was staring off into space, considering the question, no indication on his face or in his posture that he had meant anything by the remark. Perhaps she had played the Game too long, hearing innuendo and subtext where there was none. “In truth,” she said, “I never thought the idea of me, or Cassandra, as Justinia’s successor would gain momentum.”

“But you hoped it would.”

“I had … given it some thought,” she admitted cautiously. “With the other candidates out of the picture …” She shrugged. “The possibility existed.”

“The Chantry seems to be doing fine on its own so far.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Fine? Is that what you call this?”

“You’re blaming Corypheus on the lack of a Divine? Wouldn’t that be the other way around?”

“The Divine is the Chantry. You cannot have one without the other.”

“What if we don’t need a Chantry?” Nathaniel had turned to face her, his grey eyes studying her seriously. 

“We do,” she said, certain of it. “You think Thedas hates mages now? If the Chantry falls, taking with it the faith people have clung to for generations, don’t you think the people will blame magic? And the elves? And the dwarves and the Qunari and Tevinter? And when you lose, and you blame, then you fight. Everyone fighting everyone.”

Nathaniel smiled, but without humor. “You really don’t think much of people, do you?”

“I’ve seen too many of them not to know their basest natures.”

His smile faded. “I can understand that.”

“People care for simple things, things they can hold and touch and taste and understand. Their world is small, and everything beyond it is unknown and something to fear.” She shook her head. “They will continue to live like this, unless they can be shown another way.”

“You think you can show people how not to fear? I hadn’t pegged you for a dreamer. Tell me, Leliana, is there nothing you fear?” His eyes were on hers, dark and intense, looking for the answer, as if it mattered to him to know.

She felt a sudden stab of panic—what if he was a spy, sent to find her weaknesses? But then it subsided, because she knew who he was, and what he wanted: a guide, someone to show him how to come back from the abyss. “There are things that I fear,” she answered. “They make me want to work harder, to fight harder, to clear the shadows of the fear from my mind and see clearly. Right now, chief among those is Corypheus.” Leliana pushed herself away from the railing. “For now, that is my focus. When we have defeated him, then it will be time to think about finding a new Divine.”

She left him there at the railing, staring down into the depths of the building, seeing only darkness.


	36. Tarnished Memories

She came in the door of the main hall, causing little notice amongst the denizens of the Inquisition. Varric, watching her, tapping his quill against his lips, couldn’t understand why no one was looking at her—she was well worth looking at. Hair as black and glossy as a raven’s wing, and a strong, lithe body underneath a skirt made of scraps of leather and a top that was little more than a scrap itself. A face as beautiful and cold as an ice sculpture. The magic practically rolled off her, cold as her face.

If no one was looking at her, Varric felt forced to conclude, it was because she didn’t want them to.

As she paused in the doorway, looking around, her gaze fell on him, and she smiled, a calculating and predatory smile. He took notice of the sway of her hips beneath the skirt as she walked toward him. She was beautiful, no question there, but not his type. Too aware of her beauty and the weapon it could become.

“Varric Tethras.”

“Lady Morrigan.” For it could be no one else but her. He was fascinated to have her here … but less fascinated than he had been by many another person. Because no one would ever come close enough to this woman to tell her story, or even to alter it. She held her story close to her chest, and would share it with no one.

“You see much, Master Dwarf,” she said, nodding her head at him. “I take it I will not be the subject of any of your tawdry tales?”

“Not as such,” he agreed. 

“As it should be.” She turned her head toward the inner keep. “Your leaders are at council, I suppose?”

He wondered how she knew. No doubt she knew much more than anyone wanted her to. “So I imagine. I don’t track their movements.”

Morrigan laughed. “Don’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “Perhaps we will speak more later, dwarf.”

“I’m here,” he said lightly, but he breathed an inner sigh of relief when she moved on and took the burden of her gaze away from him … or he did until he saw that the next person she stopped to speak to was Hawke.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Lilias remembered Morrigan from the ball. Seeing her here, in Skyhold, she stiffened, and from the amusement on the other woman’s face, Morrigan noticed it.

“The Champion of Kirkwall. Skyhold does attract the mighty names of Thedas, does it not?”

Nettled, Lilias snapped, “My name is Lilias Hawke. I am not the Champion of Kirkwall, and as I imagine you very well know, I never truly was.”

Morrigan tutted at her. “You should have more confidence in your power. Leyden certainly did. She knew the power she held, and she toyed with it. And with them.” The smile that had been playing around her mouth widened; she looked very much like a cat with a mouse.

“With them?” The implication was that others had been in love with Leyden, too, not just Alistair. Could that be true? Certainly Morrigan wouldn’t have expected Lilias to feel relief at that news … but undeniably she did.

“When the assassin returned to Antiva, he bore a fresh tattoo. Not unlike the one the King of Ferelden carries branded on his heart.”

“What is it you want here, Morrigan?” Lilias asked coolly. She was somewhat taller than the mage, and she took advantage of her height now, drawing herself up.

“Is that not for the Inquisitor to ask? Perhaps you will be dismayed to hear that I am come to stay.” Morrigan looked around her with satisfaction. “’Tis a most welcome change from the Blight—and if truth be told, rather warmer than the Winter Palace.”

“What do you mean?”

“Empress Celene has decided the Inquisition needs the benefit of my knowledge more than she does, and has declared me liaison to the Inquisition.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you. No doubt I can be of use against Corypheus.” There was a sneering look on Morrigan’s face that said as plainly as words that she questioned Lilias’s use in that endeavor.

“Good. We can use all the help we can get,” Lilias said, trying not to rise to the bait.

Morrigan began to move past her, then stopped. “You may not believe it, Champion, but I truly wish you luck. You will need it.”

And then she was gone, pushing through the door into Josephine’s office, leaving Lilias to wonder just what she had meant by that.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen moved a piece across the War Table into the region of Orlais known as the Arbor Wilds. “This is where our latest intelligence has him, Inquisitor. He has uprooted his major strongholds and gone south.” A pleased smile crept across his face. “His army clearly wasn’t prepared to flee. Our victories have them on the defensive.”

“Good of Corypheus to make it easy to find him.” There was an answering smile on Thule’s face. It felt for a moment as if they both could sense the beginning of the end. “If we can find him in the Arbor Wilds, that’s where we finish him.”

“But what is Corypheus doing in such a remote area?” Josephine asked.

“His people have been ransacking elven ruins since Haven,” Leliana replied. “We believe he seeks more. What he hopes to find, however,” she added, “continues to elude us.”

As if in response to her words, the heavy doors flew open, and a cool voice said, “Which should surprise no one.”

Cullen’s head snapped up in surprise as he recognized the lady Morrigan. He had known she was coming—they all had—but that she could arrive here, in the midst of a War Room meeting, with no notice from their scouts … Well, it had been obvious even in the Tower, even in his state at the time, that she was no ordinary woman, and certainly not an ordinary mage. He shivered, wondering what the extent of her powers might be.

Next to him, Leliana stiffened as Morrigan came further into the room, standing next to Thule as though she belonged there. She looked arrogantly around the table. “Fortunately, I can assist.” She paused, and then when no one spoke, she continued. “What Corypheus seeks in those forgotten woods is as ancient as it is dangerous.”

“Which is?” Thule asked her, a faint edge to his tone. 

She looked down at him, and Cullen marveled at how clear it was that the sense of superiority she felt over the Inquisitor had nothing to do with his height. “’Tis best if I show you.”

And with that she was gone, leaving Leliana seething, Josephine curious, and Thule resigned, if a little impatient. Shrugging his shoulders apologetically, he followed her out of the room.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Given his choice, Thule would far rather have finished the War Room meeting than gone with Morrigan, but she seemed uninterested in taking no for an answer. That kind of high-handed behavior was going to become tiresome if it continued, and he intended to let her know that … but he admitted to some curiosity as to what knowledge, exactly, she brought to the table.

Cassandra found him leaning on the low wall of one of the battlements hours later, staring off into space. He roused himself when she came near, but only with an effort.

“I understand the Empress’s ‘occult advisor’ has come to join us,” she said stiffly. “I do hope her presence will be of value.”

“I was skeptical,” he admitted, “but what she showed me today …” He let the words trail off, not sure he knew how to fully explain what he had experienced.

“Oh?” There was a dangerous edge to Cassandra’s voice that suggested he had better try.

“She has a mirror. She calls it an … eluvian,” he said, pronouncing it carefully. “An ancient elven artifact.”

“And what does she use this mirror for?”

“To—“ He turned to look up at her. “You won’t believe me.”

“Of course I will,” Cassandra said indignantly. “When have I not believed you? Since the first day we met, that is,” she amended hastily, and Thule was glad to see a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Fair enough,” he said, smiling back at her. “She uses it to move between worlds.”

“Balderdash!”

“See? I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I am sorry,” Cassandra said contritely. “Pray continue.”

“She took me through,” Thule continued, “to this grey land where there are all these doorways—other eluvians. She called it a Crossroads.”

“Do you mean to tell me that Corypheus seeks such a mirror?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Can you imagine what he might do with the power to travel almost instantly from one part of Thedas to another?”

Cassandra shook her head. “He could become unstoppable.”

“Yes.” Thule nodded. “We can’t allow that.”

She reached out, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We won’t.”

He put his hand over hers, keeping it there. “No,” he agreed. “We won’t.”  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
He knew he shouldn’t go. He told himself so all the way to the gardens. But he couldn’t stop himself. As soon as Alistair had heard of Morrigan’s arrival in Skyhold, he had been filled with the need to see her, to get from her the truth of whatever secret it was she and Leliana possessed that he didn’t know—what had happened to Leyden before she faced the Archdemon. 

As he had imagined she might be, Morrigan was waiting for him when he arrived. “You are late.”

“You’ll tell me what you know today,” he said without waiting for the niceties, “or by the Maker I’ll—“

Morrigan laughed. “You will do nothing. I know you, Alistair, and I know that one of your virtues, few though they may be, is that you would never touch a woman in anger. Not even I, whom you hold to be barely such.”

She was right, and he subsided, as much for the rare praise and the surprising softness of her tone as for the words themselves.

“Tell me,” he said, the words falling onto the ground like snowflakes.

“Do you know that Skyhold was built upon the remains of a site holy to the ancient elves? They called it Tarasyl’an; ‘the place where the sky is kept’. ‘Tis a marvel that the Inquisition found it, buried as it is here in the mountains. Bones laid upon bones, silent until the Inquisition’s arrival.”

Alistair clamped his teeth down on his tongue to keep from urging her again.

“There is a magic in this place,” Morrigan went on, musing as if to herself. “It is a protection against … darkness.”

“Is that why we can’t leave? Me, and …” He didn’t want to use Lilias’s name.

“It is, perhaps, why you don’t wish to. The darkness has bitten deep into you; perhaps even now the magic here is counteracting it.” Morrigan frowned thoughtfully. “And perhaps the Inquisitor as well. He has much the same magic about him, don’t you think? It is impossible not to find him a cheering presence—even for me,” she added, with what almost looked like a grin in Alistair’s direction. “You see, I say it before you have a chance to do so.”

“Why are you here, Morrigan? Are you here to harm the Inquisition?”

“No.” He believed her, although he wasn’t sure why he should. “I am here to aid the Inquisition’s cause with all the knowledge at my disposal. I swear it.”

“Why should you swear to me?”

“So that you will believe me when I tell you that I did not wish Leyden to die. She was my friend, if I have ever understood what such a thing means. I would have given everything I had for her to accept the bargain I offered her. I wish, even now, that I had not taken her word and gone to you instead. For her, even then, you might have listened.”

“I?” A chill worked its way through Alistair. “What could I have done?”

“You will not believe me.”

“You have to tell me, whether I believe you or not. I’ve—“ He didn’t want to admit these things to her, but she already knew, that was plain enough. “I’ve suffered without her. I don’t know how—I don’t know who I am, or what to do. All I know is I was once good enough for her, and I haven’t been good enough for anything else since then.”

“I know you feel that. I have wondered since whether, in truth, she was good enough for you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“You see? Already you do not believe me.” She sounded genuinely grieved, but Alistair knew better than to fall for that. “What would you have done to save her life, Alistair?”

“Anything.”

“Yes, perhaps so. You see … I offered her a way out. Neither of you would have had to die.”

“I could have done this, saved her life? Why didn’t she let me?” His voice was hoarse, and he stepped closer to her without thinking.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“Stop!” Leliana came toward them out of the shadows. “Do not tell him this way!”

“If you had your way, we would never tell him at all. Is that what you prefer?” Morrigan asked.

“He doesn’t need to know. Leave his memories untarnished,” Leliana pleaded.

“A false memory is worse than a tarnished one. At least he would know the woman he mourns better.”

“None of that matters. Don’t you see?” Alistair turned to Leliana, and she was pained by the sorrow in his eyes. “I have to know.”

“Very well. Leyden—“

Morrigan interrupted her. “I went to Leyden in Redcliffe; I spoke to her of a ritual, to be performed in the dark of night.”

“A ritual?” Alistair asked. “Blood magic?”

“Of a type.”

“She wanted to sleep with you,” Leliana said. “To bed you, and get with child by you.”

“A child?” Alistair was frowning between them. “Neither of you are making any sense.”

Morrigan spoke quickly, and with an impatient look at Leliana. “If I could have conceived a child with the taint—begat by a Grey Warden such as yourself, with some life left in his loins—the Archdemon’s soul would have sought the child when it was killed. The child would have absorbed the soul of the Old God, and the taint in the child would have cleansed it. There would have been no final duel between the soul of the Old God and the soul of the Grey Warden.”

Alistair put his hands on his face, and some part of Leliana that remembered who she had been before she became the Left Hand of the Divine wanted to go to him, to embrace and comfort him. “How can you just tell him like that? As though it is one of Varric’s tales,” she spat.

“It is far more important than that,” Morrigan countered. “The question is, how can you not have told him? Do you not see what placing her on a pedestal she didn’t deserve and did not want has damaged him? I have never felt any affection for Alistair, but I would never have left him to flail as you have done.”

“She … said no?” Alistair asked faintly. “Was it—because of me?” There was a spark of hope in his face, but it was joyless.

“No.” Morrigan spoke flatly, not even trying to sugarcoat the words. “She no longer wished to live. She hated being a Grey Warden, hated the things she had done, and felt nothing but contempt for those who worshipped her.”

“Zevran knew that,” Leliana said. “I did, too. But you—oh, Alistair, you were so innocent … How could we bear to show you that she didn’t know how to love?”

He looked at her, his eyes brimming with tears. “Don’t you see how much worse that makes it?” he whispered, and then he was gone, disappearing into the darkened garden alone.

Leliana began to go after him, but Morrigan’s hand clamped down on her wrist. “Taken in hand properly, he could have accomplished much. But Leyden, and you, and apparently the Champion of Kirkwall, all cherished his innocence so much that you kept him from growing up—and you have done all of Thedas a grave disservice in so doing.”

Looking at Morrigan now, with the weight of all the years and the memories between them, Leliana couldn’t argue. She had a sinking suspicion that the witch was right.


	37. The Past and the Future

Lilias was finishing her meal in the main hall when the Inquisitor sat down in the empty seat next to her. She had been asked to do things for people enough times in Kirkwall, and before, that she recognized the look even before he opened his mouth, and held up a hand to keep him from speaking.

“Let me guess, it’s an impossible task, but someone’s got to do it?”

He laughed, his blue eyes lighting, and Lilias couldn’t help smiling back, thinking what an attractive man he really was. “You’ve got me,” he told her. “Although in this case it’s an impossible task and only you can do it.”

His eyes were on her, meaningfully, and she remembered the woman in the hall, the same woman from the Empress’s ball, and she groaned. “What’s he gotten himself into this time?”

“About a vat of Antivan brandy, if I’m any judge. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s a bit of a lightweight.”

Early Templar training and a certain innocence had kept Alistair unusually abstemious. Lilias sighed. “Where is he?”

“Last time I saw him, he was heading up toward the outer west tower on the battlements.”

“You’re not afraid he’ll fall?”

“Not accidentally.” 

Lilias raised her eyebrows. “That bad?”

Thule nodded. “I’ve got someone watching him, but he needs to talk to … someone who cares about him. Now, I like Alistair, but he’s not exactly my type.”

“And so you came to me?”

“Whatever you might feel, there’s something between you. Just—will you talk to him? As a personal favor to me?”

His pleading eyes were practically irresistible. Lilias was amazed that Seeker Cassandra had held out so long against them. “Fine,” she said, “but if there’s vomit, someone else is cleaning it up.”

“That’s fair.”

She left him and climbed up to the battlements, finding Alistair leaning moodily against the wall and staring out across the icy mountains.

He eyed her warily as she approached. “What have you come to tell me? Go ahead, I can take it. All the rugs under my feet have already been jerked out. I’m down, I’m toppled, I’ve got no further to go.”

“I came to tell you to get back from the edge before you hurt yourself and cause an international incident,” Lilias snapped. It was cold up here, and she hadn’t wanted to take the time to get her coat, and she was afraid from the way he was standing that he really had come up here to do something drastic.

“As if anyone would notice. In case you can’t tell, Ferelden is running just fine without me.”

“Having a little self-pity for dinner?”

Alistair laughed. “Why not? It’s been my nightcap every night for … well, all my life, really. Except for a few brief months on the road during the Blight when I thought someone, finally, saw who I really was and cared for me. Turns out, she cared for no one but herself.”

“My cousin?”

“Oh, now you claim her? Now when I can’t stand to think about her?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Even angry at her, she’s all you’re thinking about,” Lilias said.

“Yes. You know, that’s true. I’ve thought of nothing but her for a decade. ‘What would Leyden do?’ I’d say to myself. And ‘what would it be like if Leyden were here?’ And ‘oh, how I miss her.’” He snorted a laugh, an ugly, unhappy sound. “Do you know what they told me, those two women who shared the Blight with me? They told me she could have saved her life. All she had to do was talk me into sleeping with Morrigan.”

“What?” Lilias wasn’t sure she’d heard right.

But Alistair kept going as though she hadn’t spoken, looking up at the stars. “Just sleep with Morrigan; that’s all I’d have had to do. And I hate Morrigan, you know that, but I’d have done it. I’d have done anything you asked, and you knew it. But you didn’t ask. You went to your death instead, because you preferred to die than to live with me.”

Lilias felt a pain stab her in the heart. She’d envied her cousin, she’d disliked the image of her she held in her mind … but now she hated Leyden, hated whatever power it was that had created such a hold over this man. And over Leliana, if she understood correctly, and the assassin. And Cullen. Even the lady Morrigan still seemed to mourn Leyden’s loss. Meanwhile, here she was, the former Champion of Kirkwall, all but dead in the eyes of the world, and the only thoughts anyone had about her were those of blame for an explosion she hadn’t caused and a revolution she hadn’t started.

“She never loved me,” Alistair whispered. Then again, louder, “She never loved me!” A lifetime of pain was in those words. “My father never loved me, either. He left me in Redcliffe, living in the stables—and don’t tell me he didn’t know. Arl Eamon never loved me. He kept me in his stables, and then he packed me off to the Templars as soon as his wife objected to my existence. All this time, all these years … I can’t think of a single person who ever really wanted me around. And I thought—I clung to Leyden’s memory because I thought she had, and now … I built my life on a lie.” He turned to look at Lilias. “Do you know what I’d give for friends like Varric, or Merrill? Neither one of them would ever let anyone hurt you, unless you wanted them to.”

Lilias crossed her arms over her chest. “I wanted you around, Alistair. And you pushed me away because I wasn’t good enough—because I wasn’t her. How many other people did you push away?”  
He looked at her. “Do you know, that’s a very good point. And … you’re still here. Why are you still here?”

“Here in Skyhold? Because I have nowhere else to go. Here on the battlements, listening to you whine about my cousin again? Because the Inquisitor sent me.”

“Why did he send you? He could have come himself.”

Lilias sighed. “He thought someone should come who cared about you.”

“Do you?” Alistair blinked at her owlishly. The maudlin phase of his drunkenness seemed to be passing into the sleepy phase. She’d have to get him down off the battlements before he fell asleep here.

“Yes, I guess I must, or I wouldn’t be here,” she told him, grabbing his arm and tugging him along. “I’m taking you back to your rooms.”

“I could sleep here.”

“No, you couldn’t.” 

She got him back there, with some discreet help from an Inquisition guard, and let him flop down on the bed, not envying him the hangover he was going to have tomorrow. The only thing that hit a person harder than a night with Antivan brandy was the morning after it.

Lilias stood in the doorway for a long moment and watched him sleeping, feeling intensely sorry for him. He was probably right; everything she knew about his life indicated that he had spent it being shuffled out of the way of other people’s ambitions. Maybe now that he knew that, was sure of it, was no longer holding on to the shiny image of Leyden in his heart, he could begin to fix it.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Having done his good deed for the day and sent Lilias after Alistair, Thule went himself to find Cassandra. He hoped his matchmaking skills did more for the other couple than they had so far done for him … all he’d managed to do is promise to court a woman who could very well be the next Divine. He’d held off on talking to her about it because he didn’t want to hear her tell him that she wanted it … but he also very much wanted her to have what made her happy, and if that was being Divine—could he really stand in her way?

He found her in the blacksmith’s, closed and quiet, with Mother Giselle. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who had decided this was a good time to sound Cassandra out about becoming Divine.

“Will you not consider it, Lady Cassandra?” Mother Giselle was saying as Thule pushed the door open. He felt a momentary leap of his heart—maybe Cassandra had rejected the idea of being Divine outright. “The clerics are still sequestered,” Mother Giselle continued. “If no one steps forward, they will debate until—“ She stopped talking when Thule came in.

“And you think I could make them agree?” Cassandra demanded, not having seen him. She turned her head and looked down at him, and then she sighed, returning her attention to the Revered Mother. “I’ve heard enough for one day.”

Mother Giselle left without another word, but she stopped next to Thule, giving him a sideways look. “Talk to her, Your Worship.”

He intended to, but he imagined the thrust of what he might say wasn’t exactly what Mother Giselle would want.

Cassandra sighed as he approached.

“Was she bothering you?” he asked.

“She is kind, and she means well. So of course she was bothering me,” Cassandra snapped. “You’ve heard that Leliana and I are candidates to be the next Divine.” She gave him a faint smile. “It’s your fault, you know. After Halamshiral, the Empire favors you, so everyone close to you is considered to be more worthwhile than they were before.”

He cursed inwardly, but outwardly forced a smile. “My winning personality again, causing complications all across Thedas.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “So of course the Chantry bandies our names about without even asking us first.”

“Would you have said no?” The words came out without him meaning to—he hadn’t wanted to ask so bluntly.

She pursed her lips, considering. “I am not certain.” She walked outside, Thule next to her, listening as she mused to herself. “It can’t have been meant to be this way. The Chantry, the Circles, the Templars … this cannot be what they intended when it all began.”

“It’s hard to keep any entity so massive in line with one set of goals.”

“But the Chantry should provide faith. Hope. Instead, it cannot veer from its course, even in the face of certain death. It has become a prisoner to its own rules. I declared the Inquisition because I thought it was the only way to get something accomplished. I did what I was told for years as a Seeker, as my faith demanded … but I discovered that my faith demanded something other than blind obedience. It demanded that I see with better eyes.” She nodded at him. “That I see the value in what is in front of me, even if it does not look the way I imagined it would.”

Thule wasn’t certain she meant him as Inquisitor or him as a potential lover, but he was afraid she meant the former. “Do you want to make the Chantry better?”

She frowned. “Did you know Varric is Andrastean?”

“Yes,” he said carefully, not certain where she was going with this tangent.

“He blasphemes with every second breath, but deep down he believes. His heart is virtuous.”

“I’ll tell him you said so,” Thule said dryly. Varric would never believe him, which would be half the fun.

“Don’t you dare!”

“Why does it matter to you that Varric believes in Andraste?”

“Because he would never set foot in a Chantry. It should be the first place the virtuous turn, but instead, they feel they do not belong there, or that it has nothing to offer them. And if I can see so clearly that the Chantry needs to change, do I not have an obligation to be willing to be the one to change it?”

Thule didn’t know what to say to that. Sure, if she felt strongly about it … but he didn’t think he could be the one to encourage her. Not at the cost of all his own hopes and dreams. “I do like your determination,” he said at last.

“Some men would call it an unattractive trait.”

“I thought we’d established that I’m not your typical man.”

She smiled. “Yes, we did.”

“What about Leliana?” he asked.

“Leliana says she wishes to follow Justinia’s legacy … but I fear she and I do not remember the same woman. Justinia knew her fellow clerics, not to mention the people, would only accept so much change. Leliana would rip apart everything and stitch it back again and imagine no one would notice. It would be chaos for us all.” She put her hands behind her back, standing and looking across the courtyard. “We must be vigilant, but we must also be compassionate to all peoples of Thedas, human or no, mage or no.”

“So this is your new crusade?” he asked, the words tasting like ashes on his tongue.

“I’ve agreed to nothing yet.”

“And if the Chantry calls on you? Do you actually want to be Divine?"

Cassandra shrugged. "Why should what I want matter?"

"Why shouldn't it matter? Don't you have the right to be happy?" He wanted her to put her happiness first, to put it into his hands and let him secure it for her and keep it safe.

"I have never believed in asking another to do what I would be unwilling to do myself. Sacrifices may well be required; I may owe it to myself and to all of Thedas to take on the task if it is offered to me."

"You don't have to change things that way," Thule argued. His heart was somewhere around his boots.

"Perhaps not. I will see what the Grand Clerics do, and if I am needed, I will do what must be done, for as long as I can," she said simply.

“I see.”

“And you? What will you do if the Chantry calls on me?”

“Whatever you ask of me, I suppose … whether I want to or not.”

“There is no reason for concern as yet. The clerics speak my name, nothing more. I do not imagine myself to be so popular that there will be a clamor for my services.”

“So … nothing needs to change?”

“For now, no.”

“You’ll let me know when it does?”

“If it does, yes. I will.” She reached down and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, and then walked off across the courtyard, leaving him there and wondering just what he had gotten himself into.


	38. Completely Herself

Cullen closed his eyes, feeling the rays of the late afternoon sun on his face, their warmth a pleasant contrast to the chilly breeze that always played around the battlements. He felt at peace, back at Skyhold, back at work, where he belonged, the reins of the army firmly in his fingers—and those fingers not trembling from lack of lyrium … or, at least, not most of the time. 

He was winning through, he felt, fighting the cravings and enduring the pain and making something of himself. Perhaps he could even face writing his family now, now that he had a reason for them to feel pride in him. Before, all he could think of were his failures at Kinloch and Kirkwall—what was to tell? They didn’t want to know how he had wept at the feet of the demons, how he had assisted the Knight Commander in everything she had done. But now—this they could know about.

He opened his eyes again, looking out across the mountains. There was a shadow next to him, a small shadow, barely seen above the top of the wall, and he looked down and smiled at Dagna, not even surprised that she should be there. “I’m glad you came.”

“I was worried about you.” Her eyes studied his face, and something in them relaxed at what she saw. “I see I needn’t have been. All you needed was work. I understand what that’s like.”

“Work, yes,” Cullen acknowledged, “but also … you. I wanted to thank you for … when you came to me in the chapel … what you did for me … I would never have thought …” He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. He had always been able to talk to her before, but knowing how she felt, what she felt … it was all different. Not necessarily bad different—there was a frisson of curiosity in him, a shiver up his spine, that wasn’t entirely unpleasant—but different enough to cause him to change how he looked at her, how he spoke to her. “This all sounded much better in my head,” he finished lamely.

“Cullen, I wouldn’t have let you suffer. Not if I can help.” Dagna looked out over the top of the wall. “I couldn’t let anyone suffer, not when I knew there were things I could do. It’s why I left Orzammar. But you least of all.” Her voice turned brisk. “How is the pain now?”

“Better. It comes and goes—sometimes I feel as if I’m back there, and that’s when it’s … the worst. I should not have pushed myself so far that day.”

“You push yourself too far every day,” she scolded. “You have to be more careful with yourself. The Inquisition needs you, and so do—“ Dagna caught herself, blushing. “Others.”

“I—will attempt to moderate my habits,” he said stiffly, not certain if he should say something to indicate he knew what she had almost let slip … or what he would say if he did. “You know what truly happened at Ferelden’s Circle, you more than almost anyone. I’ve never really spoken of it.”

“I know. I wish—I think it would have less of a hold over you if you didn’t keep it so close. I know how you feel, that you’re ashamed and embarrassed, but you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You say that, but I was a Templar. I was trained to—I should have responded better. And … for years afterward I was not myself. I was angry. So angry. And that anger blinded me to things I should have seen, and done. I am not proud of the man that made me.”

“You’ve come a long way since then … and you have every reason to be proud of the man you are today. I—I like him.”

“Thank you.” He took her words at face value—above any more unsettling emotion, Dagna was his friend. She had always been his friend, and she had never lied to him. “I do feel I can start to put some distance between myself and everything that happened now, which I never felt before. It’s … a good feeling. I can’t pretend that man I became for so long never existed; I wouldn’t want to. But I’m here now and I can make that mean something.” He looked down at her, and without thinking he reached for her hand, turning it over and touching the calluses at the base of her fingers gently. “How are you holding up? I’ve seen the list of tasks and projects you have before you. Do you need help? Are you overworking yourself?” 

Dagna was staring at their hands, and if he had doubted her feelings the look on her face would have banished that doubt. “I … I’m frightened I’m going to let everyone down. It’s—they’re so many big jobs, and they’re important, and everyone thinks I can do them, but I’m just … I’m just me, aren’t I? Just Dagna, who was never any good at anything.”

“Hey,” Cullen protested, taking her other hand and holding them both firmly in his. “That’s your father talking. The Dagna I know is incomparable; and has never yet failed at anything she tried to do. Do not doubt yourself.”

“I … try not to, but when you’ve spent your entire life being told …” She looked down, and he saw a glimmer of a tear slide down her cheek. “It’s hard to remember.”

Cullen tipped her chin up gently with one finger, leaning down to look at her, everything else forgotten in the face of her distress. “If you ever need reminding, you can come to me.”

“Can I?” Her eyes searched his as they had searched her face earlier, and for the life of him, Cullen didn’t know what she saw, or what there was to see. He only knew that this dwarf—this woman—in front of him was important to him, and he would see her reassured.

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Cullen.”

And somehow, in all of this, when he had meant to thank her, here she was thanking him, which was entirely backward.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Varric crumpled up the parchment … then he straightened it back out again and ripped it into strips, instead, throwing the strips one by one into the fireplace behind him and watching them burn to ash. He didn’t need it—he knew her words by heart. He could remember every letter she had ever sent him. Partially because there had been so few, and partially because every word wrote itself on his mind indelibly as he read it. If he could have forgotten her words, maybe he could have done a better job forgetting her.

_Dear Varric_ , she’d written. _Activity continues. They’re like ants—but less intelligent. That red stuff burns away their brains first, and then their bodies. I’ve watched it happen. You and your buddy better get out here, and not just because I miss your undwarvenly beardless face._

She had left it unsigned, but of course, he knew. Anyone who knew her knew that writing—it was on all her blueprints. She was a woman of many talents, but being less than completely herself in any way wasn’t one of them. Hence the burning. If the Merchants’ Guild got their hands on that letter … Well, fortunately Varric had money squirreled away in a number of different places, under a number of different names. But remembering where it all was would be inconvenient.

He’d prod Thule first thing in the morning about heading for that thaig. 

But where had Corypheus learned about the thaig in the first place? Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and thought, even though it made his head hurt. Was it so ancient that Corypheus had known about it a thousand years ago? Had one of the hired thugs they’d brought along for muscles grown enough of a brain to talk? There had been that father-son team Hawke had hired as her house servants for a while—where had they ended up? The son wasn’t too bright—could he have been made to talk?

One thing was for sure, he would be glad when this whole mess was cleared up … even if it meant another endless span of years without seeing Bianca.   
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“And then we stood up, and everyone clapped.” Lilias demonstrated with a flourish, just as it had happened at Halamshiral. Well, a rather exaggerated version, for Merrill’s amusement.

Eyes shining, Merrill clapped as instructed. “That was lovely.”

“Then she tried to kill the Inquisitor and the Empress, and was dragged off in chains.”

“That’s lovely, too. Or is it less lovely?”

“No one died.”

“Then it was lovely,” Merrill decided.

Lilias collapsed back on the bed and reached for another cookie. They were having a bit of a pig-out in Lilias’s rooms, catching up on everything that had happened since Lilias left for Orlais. The cookies were mostly gone now, and all that was left of the crispy thin fried potato slices were crumbs on the floor. Addictive little things—the whole keep was crazy about them.

“So what did _you_ do? Was it super quiet here with all the leadership away?”

“Not so much as you might think. The Chargers are loud no matter who’s around.” 

“I can imagine. But what did you do? See any more of a certain bald elf?” Lilias grinned, but Merrill sighed, looking downcast.

“I did, but …”

“But what? The two of you were getting along so well.”

“We still are—but I think there are things he isn’t telling me.”

“Did you tell him everything? I mean, about—“

“I told him about my clan,” Merrill said. She winced, the memory still sharp and jagged in her.

“But did you tell him about the eluvian? And the blood magic?”

“No. I … What is there to say? I tried something foolish to gain back the history of our people? Solas doesn’t seem all that interested in the history of our people,” she said thoughtfully. “He changes the subject whenever I try to talk about it.”

“Maybe he feels the future is more important than the past,” Lilias suggested.

“Maybe. I wish I knew. There’s something—off about him, and I can’t quite put my finger on it—but oh, Hawke, there’s something else so … compelling. Being with him is more exciting than anything since—well, since I gave up on the eluvian.”

“Then go with that, and keep in mind the something off. You might find a time when you can ask and he’ll tell you—it might be something completely innocuous.”

“Possibly.” 

But Merrill didn’t seem convinced.


	39. New Directions

Responding to a note from Blackwall, Thule went down to the stables after he’d eaten his evening meal. He’d felt uncomfortable around Blackwall ever since Leliana had imparted to him the information that their resident Grey Warden wasn’t actually a Warden at all. Blackwall did good work for them—he was a good man, that was plain. But if he was pretending to be something he wasn’t, there must be a reason, and Thule didn’t like the sensation that the solid ground under his feet might suddenly become quicksand. He didn’t like it at all.

Blackwall looked up from his carving—a gryphon, by the looks of it—as Thule came in. “Thank you for coming. I … had a hankering for company tonight. Want a drink?” He reached for a bottle, holding it aloft.

“Sure. Any reason you were hankering for my company particularly this evening, instead of going to the Herald’s Rest?” Harding was visiting Skyhold; usually the head scout’s presence was enough to pull Blackwall out of his self-imposed solitude.

“Limited company this evening,” Blackwall said shortly, not rising to Thule’s attempt to tease him.

They sat down with cups of wine in front of Blackwall’s little fireplace. Thule sipped the wine—a surprisingly good vintage—and waited for Blackwall to begin. This was about more than company. Blackwall had something to say, and there was no point rushing him. 

“I’ve been thinking … about my childhood,” Blackwall said at last.

It wasn’t at all where Thule had expected the conversation to go, but he hoped a discussion of Blackwall’s childhood would lead to some answers about his more recent past. “Yes?” he asked encouragingly.

“When I was a boy, there were these urchins who roamed the streets near my father’s house.”

“When I was a boy, I _was_ an urchin roaming the streets,” Thule countered, and Blackwall nodded.

“Even then, I doubt you were like these. They were lawless, utterly wild, and heedless of who they might hurt. One day, they found a dog. A wretched little thing, starving. It came to them for food. They caught it, tied a rope around its neck, and strung it up.”

“Why?”

“Because they could,” Blackwall said, his voice low and savage. “Because they didn’t care. But I—I was there, I saw, and … do you know what I did?”

The Blackwall Thule knew would have charged in and stopped them. But Blackwall as a child? It was hard to say. He shook his head, raising his eyebrows to encourage Blackwall to continue.

“I did nothing. Not a damn thing.” He took a deep, sharp breath, looking at the fire to steady himself. “It was crying. I saw its legs kicking, the neck straining and twisting … It was horrid. Anyone who says that animals don’t feel pain—“ He shook his head. “They do.”

“Did you watch until it was dead?”

“No. I turned around, went inside, and closed the door. I could have told my father or alerted someone, but I didn’t. I just pretended it wasn’t happening. Because it was easier than fighting them, because I didn’t know what I would do with the dog if I saved it, because it was a weak and starving thing and I despised it as they did.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Doesn’t it? I’ve … I’ve tried not to be that boy, for a long time. Even then, I was old enough to know the dog was suffering and that it was wrong. I may as well have tied the noose myself. I—It’s not the only time that I’ve seen suffering and walked away, but it’s stayed with me, somehow. The look in its eyes …” He shuddered.

“You’ve changed, Blackwall. The man that you are now—you wouldn’t let something like that happen again.”

“Wouldn’t I? I’ve been wondering.” He looked over at Thule. “We could make the world better, but it’s easier just to shut our eyes.”

“No one here is shutting their eyes. We’ve all got them wide open, looking out for Corypheus. We’re doing our part to make the world better, and you’re right here with us. It’s not easy, but then again, nothing worth doing is.”

Blackwall chuckled. “You would have done the right thing. I knew you would have.”

Thule raised his eyebrows. “I was starving myself. I would have eaten the dog and been glad for the meat.”

“You say that, but I have a hard time believing it. Whatever you used to be, you aren’t anymore. You’re the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, and that role has changed you, even in the short time I’ve known you. And you—you have changed others. Never doubt that. We’re lucky there are people like you in the world.”

Thule smiled. “Thank you, Blackwall.”

Blackwall nodded. “There’s always some dog out there, some fucking mongrel who doesn’t know how to stay away.”

“That’s what Skyhold is here for; to take them in and help them.”

“Possibly.”

Blackwall stood up, indicating that the conversation was over. Thule still didn’t know what they had been talking about, but he hoped he had helped. He guessed only time would tell.

The next morning, when he came down to the stables again responding to a summons from Scout Harding, he wasn’t at all surprised to find her in tears, reading a good-bye note from Blackwall, and Blackwall himself nowhere to be found.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Lilias bid Varric a good afternoon, getting up from his table with her lunch dishes. He was surprisingly distracted today, and a little down, which wasn’t like him at all. She wondered if it had something to do with Bianca, but she knew that was the one topic you couldn’t approach with Varric too well to bother asking.

At the buffet where she stacked her dirty dishes, she found Josephine busy doing the same thing. They chatted a moment about the toughness of the day’s mutton, and then Josephine leaned in closer, dropping her voice. “I happen to have just received a box today with some luscious fruit, straight from Antiva, and a fine selection of teas. If you would like to join me, Champion?”

“I would be delighted, thank you, Ambassador, but only if you’ll drop the Champion and call me Lilias.”

Josephine smiled. “Of course. And you will call me Josephine—I hear the word Ambassador entirely too often, and frequently in tones that would make a dragon’s dying scream sound pleasant.”

Lilias winced; she vividly recalled the dying scream of the dragon they had killed outside Kirkwall … although she would have been very surprised if Josephine had ever seen a real dragon, much less been close enough to hear one scream or see it die. Still, she appreciated the attempt to put the complaint into terms she understood.

Soon they were seated comfortably in Josephine’s office, with steaming hot cups of fragrant tea and plates of fruit that were remarkably fresh-looking, despite having come all the way from Antiva—Josephine said it was an enchantment on the boxes that kept things cold.

Josephine sighed. “It is so nice to have a bit of a break.”

“I wish I felt the same. I’m at loose ends here, a bit, with no official standing and therefore nothing particular to do.” With a momentary flash of panic, Lilias wondered if that was what she was doing here, if Josephine were planning to approach her to help with Ambassador duties. Which would be a disaster—she supposed she could work at being diplomatic, but nothing would change the fact that she was a disgraced ex-Champion who many people still blamed for everything that had happened in Kirkwall, and since. Just being attached to the Inquisition at all was problematic; it wouldn’t look good for them if she was out front representing it.

Looking up into Josephine’s eyes, she felt foolish. Of course Josephine knew all that—knew it better than Lilias did. She was very good at her job. Josephine smiled to acknowledge that she had read some of what had been going on in Lilias’s mind; possibly all of it. “I was thinking that the Inquisitor has many calls on his time, requests to go and help people with their troubles. Some of it requires him in person, but other tasks are more …”

“Generic?” Lilias supplied.

“Yes. And perhaps being seen to help people could begin the process of restoring your reputation as well, don’t you think? After all, that is how the Inquisitor got where he is. Remember, when he first came to us, everyone thought he was responsible for the Conclave.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

Josephine chuckled. “It is now, but you should have seen him then. Hiding his fear with bluster, stealing everything he could get his hands on … He was always charming, but he has learned an astonishing amount. Just look at how he handled himself at Halamshiral. I do not believe the man I first met could have done so.” She looked at Lilias thoughtfully. “You also managed to shine. Your dance with Florianne—I have seen little to rival it. Orlais will be talking about it, and you, for some time yet to come.” 

Lilias flushed at the praise, uncertain how to respond. “You seemed to enjoy yourself.”

“Oh, yes! So bracing, to be in the thick of the Great Game again! One forgets how one misses it. The last time I was at Halamshiral was … let’s see … yes, Countess Letienne’s wedding. A dozen affairs, five secret alliances, and a duel between two Chevaliers over the vintage of an Antivan port.” The nostalgic smile left her face. “But until the Duchess was unmasked, I have never seen the Winter Palace in shock.”

“You don’t see the Empress of Orlais almost killed in cold blood in the middle of her own ball every day.”

“Certainly not so brazenly,” Josephine agreed. She shook her head. “The Game has become increasingly insular in the past few years. Corypheus skillfully took advantage of that. It is disturbing that so few people in the Orlesian court were aware of the Duchess’s machinations.”

“You would think the Game’s greatest players would be able to spot a murderer in their midst.”

“You would, wouldn’t you? As I said, insularity. Familiar rivals become the only ones worth sparring with; one begins to think one knows all there is to know, and forgets to look for new players and unusual tactics.”

“But in the end, it was a victory, and another setback for Corypheus.” Lilias remembered the tall, disturbing figure, part darkspawn and part man and part something entirely different, and shuddered.

Josephine saw the movement and smiled. “Yes, let’s do speak of something else.”

Lilias grinned. “Perhaps we could talk about the handsome man you were dancing with at the end of the ball.”

To her surprise, Josephine nearly dropped her cup. “Must we?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was touching on a sore spot.”

“No, you couldn’t have.” Josephine sighed. “That was Lord Otranto. My mother has betrothed me to him.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes. Arranged marriages are still part of the custom in Antiva. More’s the pity. I tried to tell her—and him—that I simply do not have the time to deal with this, but he … they were most insistent.” There was a flush on Josephine’s cheeks that made Lilias wonder if Lord Otranto’s insistence had been more pleasant than Josephine had expected. “He … wants to come here.”

“And you’re afraid he’ll be a distraction?”

“I am certain he will be a distraction. I am afraid … that I will enjoy it.”

“Surely you have been involved with men before?”

“Yes, of course, but always with an eye to the ending, you know? In this case, he does not see an ending, and will be most … unwilling to allow me to imagine one.”

“Hm. That is a conundrum. What are you going to do?”

Josephine shook her head. “I appear to have little choice. If I rebuff him, I will displease my mother, who will make my continued management of the Montilyet affairs—already difficult given the distance and my work here—a nightmare. If I allow him to come, who knows what will happen?”

Lilias smiled. “Sounds like you already have your answer—mystery in this case sounds better than certainty.”

“It does, doesn’t it? Still … I admit to being nervous.” Josephine smiled. “Thank you for this. It has been nice to take a moment to relax with a friend.”

Leaving Josephine’s office, Lilias felt better than she had in a long time. Helping the Inquisitor help others sounded like just the job for her—essentially what she had done in Kirkwall, and done well ... and she had made a friend.


	40. Bianca

The Deep Roads. Lilias stood outside the door, unable to move, not wanting to leave the bright sunshine for the darkness and chill of the Deep Roads.

Varric looked up at her. “Yeah, you and me both. But … what are you going to do? We—I—started this.”

“ _We_ started this,” she corrected him. “You had it right the first time. We have to finish it. I just need a moment before we go in.”

Ahead of them, Dorian and Cassandra had already gone through the door, stooping a bit to avoid hitting their heads, and the Inquisitor followed them, with a quick, sympathetic glance backward at Varric and Lilias. She shook herself. “Bianca’s waiting for you in there, isn’t she?”

“I hope so.”

Lilias nodded. “All right then. Let’s not keep her waiting any longer than she already has.” She followed Varric through the doors, and then through another set and down a long flight of stairs, the darkness folding itself more and more firmly around her with every step. For some reason, she thought of Alistair, still back at Skyhold, and wished he was with her. Foolish, foolish girl, she told herself.

At the bottom, she saw Bianca’s upturned face, and wished she was in front of Varric to see what his expression looked like. Was he happy, or was he typically Varric, too cool to be enthused, even by the sight of the woman he so clearly loved?

“Finally!” Bianca snapped as Varric, and behind him Lilias, came into earshot. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

“My fault,” Thule said cheerfully. “Calls on the Inquisitor’s time and all that.”

Bianca glanced at him, not particularly interested, and then looked back at Varric, waiting for him to finish his descent. 

He didn’t reach for her when he came to the bottom; Lilias supposed it had only been a few weeks since they’d been together at Skyhold, but still.

“Nobody said you had to hang out in the dark, creepy cave until we got here,” he informed Bianca.

She shrugged. “Well, I did wait, no matter what anyone said or didn't say, so let’s get a move on. These idiots are carrying the red lyrium out in unprotected containers.” There was a surprising pity in her tone; Lilias had never heard her sound so human. And no wonder—unshielded blue lyrium was dangerous to touch. Unshielded red? Whoever was in charge of this operation certainly didn’t care if the workers survived it. Or hoped they wouldn’t, which was a chilling thought.

Dorian moved closer to her, saying in a low tone, “Our enemies are taking themselves out through their own stupidity. Which ought to be a cheering thought, but …”

Lilias nodded. “Somehow it really isn’t.”

Varric glanced sharply at Bianca. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.” She seemed affronted that he would even ask. “I know what I’m doing. But it does mean we want to hurry this up—we don’t want to stick around here long enough for the lyrium to start ‘talking’ to us.”

“That does not sound pleasant,” Cassandra agreed.

As she led them farther down, Thule asked, “How did you find this operation in the first place? There must be hundreds of Deep Roads entrances.”

“There are.” Bianca glanced at the Inquisitor over her shoulder. “Where do you think Varric got the directions to the entrance he and Hawke used? I may be a surface dwarf, but I know my way around the Deep Roads as well as anyone.” She frowned. “I’ve got to admit, though, I was pretty surprised to get here and find the place full of humans.”

“And empty of darkspawn, I devoutly hope?” Dorian asked, giving an exaggerated shudder.

“I’ve seen a few. Not as many as usual, though.”

Not much farther in, they were attacked for the first time. Dwarves, which rather surprised Lilias … but the Inquisitor’s growl of “Carta” set her straight. The Carta must have sold or leased this section of the Deep Roads to Corypheus’s operation. She hoped they’d been paid in advance.

But there was no time for consideration, because they were in battle, and Carta dwarves were no joke to fight. She and Varric and Thule were all familiar with the style, and Cassandra and Dorian picked up the differences in fighting well-trained dwarves quickly. Bianca stood off to the sidelines with a crossbow that looked like Varric’s but was more stream-lined, and picked off individual dwarves calmly.

Once they were finished, and had determined that none of the dwarves carried anything in their pockets to tell them more about the operation, Bianca led them onward again. “So, this your everyday?” she asked Varric and Lilias.

“Beg pardon?” Varric asked.

“You know, skulking around in caves, shooting guys. I would’ve thought you’d both had enough of that in Kirkwall.”

“We did,” Lilias said sourly.

“Saving the world gets to be a habit, so I hear,” Thule called back cheerfully.

“Perhaps you’d better ask your friend His Kingliness about that,” Varric responded. He glanced quickly at Lilias, gauging her expression, and she looked carefully ahead of her, pretending there was nothing to her in any mention of Alistair. There certainly shouldn’t be, after all. He cleared his throat, looking back at Bianca. “I do usually try to avoid the caves.”

She shook her head, tutting at him. “You’re a terrible dwarf.”

“Just see my manly lack of chin hair.”

“Ah, but you make up for it in chest hair.” She looked speculatively at Thule. “Does he?”

The Inquisitor did seem remarkably hairless for a dwarf—completely clean-shaven, without even Varric’s trace of stubble.

“Please!” Varric looked affronted, but his eyes were twinkling. “You’d have to ask the Seeker.”

“I heard that,” Cassandra said icily, not amused.

“I don’t believe things have proceeded that far,” Dorian said.

“And they never will, if things don’t get prodded along.” 

The Inquisitor winced, looking apprehensively at Cassandra, stalking ahead of him. “Varric, I beg you not to help me.”

“Stones, you’re never going to get anywhere if you—“

“Varric!” Cassandra said, and that effectively cut him off, although he looked completely unrepentant. Lilias grinned to herself. Poor Thule, he had no chance of conducting this romance alone, not with this crew.

Bianca appeared bored by the whole line of discussion, and moved ahead, signaling them all to pause as she looked around the edge of a wall.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Behind him, Thule could hear Varric’s low voice. “You know, this may be too close to the surface to really count as the Deep Roads … but have I mentioned that I hate the Deep Roads?”

Hawke’s voice, chilled and thin, said, “Me, too.”

“If we’re counting,” said Dorian, “you can add my vote as well.”

“We’re shutting up,” Thule growled. “You want them to hear you all the way to Orzammar?”

“It’s fine. No one’s there that I can tell,” Bianca called back, and they all followed her around the corner. Thule found himself walking with Varric and Bianca, but his eyes were on Cassandra, his mind worrying over the endless question of whether she’d rather be Divine than be with him, whether the book of poetry he'd had Dorian find for him and was painstakingly trying to memorize had been a mistake.

Next to him, Bianca bumped Varric with her shoulder. “I’m mad at you, you know?”

“Yeah? What’ve I done now?”

“That letter you sent me about the red lyrium was the first I’d heard from you since the Chantry explosion.”

“You could not have failed to know if he was dead. The entire world would have gone into mourning without Varric’s precious prose to sustain it,” Cassandra called back.

“Maybe not the world, Seeker. Maybe just a small part of it.” There was an undeniable smirk on Varric’s face, knowing as he did that Cassandra herself certainly would miss him and his prose, despite what she might say. 

“Nonetheless, I shouldn’t have had to spend months worrying whether you were alive or dead,” Bianca said to Varric, dropping her voice a bit so it wouldn’t carry as far.

“It hadn’t been that long, had it? Besides …” Varric hesitated, then said, “I worry about you all the time.”

“That’s sweet. A lie, but sweet.”

“No, I really do.”

She looked at him sharply, and Thule began to consider dropping back to give them more privacy—or he would have, if he wasn’t so fascinated by this insight into Varric’s relationship. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“And trust what’s-his-name to take care of you? That’ll be the day.”

“Bogdan’s got my best interests at heart.”

“Best interests of your money, you mean.”

Bianca chuckled. “You’re so cute when you’re jealous.”

Varric didn’t have a comeback for that one, surprisingly, and Thule bit back a laugh.

“Seriously, though,” Bianca continued, “if you’d died in that mess, I’d have come back and dug you up just to kick your ass.”

“And if I’d been sent to the Maker on a pyre?”

She shrugged, grinning. “What else? I’d have kicked your ashes.”

Thule couldn’t help it. “And died choking on a cloud of Varric dust?” He laughed, but neither of them did, and so he cleared his throat, hoping he looked properly contrite. “Sorry.”

At last they came to a set of doors. One attempt by Cassandra proved they were going to have the Void of a time opening them unless they left and came back with the Iron Bull, but Bianca waved them all back, kneeling at the corner. “I built these doors,” she said over her shoulder. “Looks like they shut this one from the other side when they heard the ruckus we were making.”

Something she did moved some kind of machinery on the other side of the door, and it rolled smoothly to the side. She was good at what she did, Thule had to give her that. 

Bianca stood up, smiling. Smirking, really. “Ta-da.” She was just waiting for the praise, but none came. 

“You built these doors?” Thule asked. “How many times have you come down here?”

“I told you I’ve used this entrance in the past,” she said, irritated. “What was I supposed to do, leave everything falling to pieces?”

“People do.”

“Only people who don’t intend to come back … and aren’t worried about being followed. You know about the Merchants Guild. They’re cutthroat. Literally.” She swept her gaze down to the hilts of Thule’s daggers. “No doubt you’ve done some work for them in the past.”

He couldn’t deny that; never had. He shrugged.

“Well, then, you know they’re perfectly capable of having someone follow me down here to arrange an ‘accident’. Can you blame me for building a few things to help make sure that doesn’t happen?”

“So … you coming down here made the entrance more visible?” Hawke asked.

Bianca glared at her. “I’m careful.”

“Of course you are. She was just asking,” Varric said placatingly. He looked up at Hawke, his face almost pleading. This was the only thing in Varric’s life too sacred to talk about, this woman here and her fearsome skills. Thule didn’t blame him for not wanting to see open hostility between her and his best friend.

“We’d better keep moving,” he said.

Bianca looked around at all of them defiantly, as though she were just waiting for more criticism or suspicion. When none came she nodded, grudgingly, and led them through the door.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The doorway led into farther caverns, but here it was more clear that there had been significant use. Papers spread out on tables, attempts made to clean up debris from the corners. Bianca was putting her stamp on it. Varric imagined her down here, alone in the dark with one of her fancy torch holders attached to her wrist or her head or her shoulder, contentedly at work. Her need for solitude had always been important to her—he understood it, and to his credit, so did what’s-his-name.

And what came out of it was sheer genius. His own Bianca was her crowning achievement, but she had done other things, advancing knowledge and building things that shouldn’t exist, but did. “They should make you a Paragon,” he said out loud.

Bianca gave him a fond look. “You would say that. But you know it would never happen—even if I am ten times the smith Branka ever was. A surfacer Paragon? That’ll be the day.”

“They’ve got to drag themselves out of the dark—and their heads out of their asses—eventually.”

“Maybe, but not in your lifetime or mine.”

“People are never fond of admitting that when someone does something different from the way they’ve always done it, it’s often the right idea,” Sparkler said. “Too often, they instead clap the poor unfortunate dissenter in irons … and throw away the key.”

“Down!” Bianca called, and Dorian ducked immediately, midword, as did the others.

A rusty iron arrow embedded itself in the Seeker’s shield. She yanked it out and grimly drew her sword. “Darkspawn.”

Varric groaned. “Really?”

“It’s the Deep Roads! What did you expect?” Stones snapped. His daggers were out and ready, and reluctantly Varric drew Bianca. He could cheerfully go the rest of his life without seeing, or needing to kill, another darkspawn.

The living Bianca took up a position next to him, drawing her smaller and lighter version of his darling. “Come on, Varric, it’s just like old times.”

“Is it? I don’t remember us ever shooting things together.” He aimed at a movement in the dark across a flimsy wooden bridge, letting a bolt fly, taking satisfaction in the gurgle the darkspawn made as it struck.

“You have to remember Bartrand’s Guild dinner. We might as well have shot him.”

Varric laughed, thinking of his brother’s face, red with rage. And then he stopped laughing, thinking of his brother’s face, red with lyrium, years later. “Yeah,” he said softly, trying to match Bianca’s light tone when he no longer felt light, “but this isn’t nearly as dangerous as pissing off my brother.”

Hawke and Stones were across the flimsy bridge now, so Varric held his fire. Shortly they came back, smiling in satisfaction, and were immediately accosted by Sparkler and the Seeker, respectively, looking to see if either of them were in danger of being contaminated by darkspawn blood.

Bianca took advantage of the momentary solitude to ask, “How long are you going to stick with them, anyway?”

“Oh, I don’t know. As long as this shit is going on, for sure. Maybe longer. Depends. Until it gets boring and there are no more stories to tell, I suppose. Why?”

“Well, I was hoping I could convince you to stop by while Bogdan’s gone. You have to see my new workshop.”

Varric smiled to himself. She would, too, not thinking about how it would feel to know he wasn’t technically allowed to set foot in that workshop, or how it would feel to know that above it, in her house, she slept with what’s-his-name while Varric cuddled her namesake in a cold bed. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said noncommittally. “You do know your family would have me killed if I did that, right?”

“No! They’ve given that up.”

“Uh-huh. You always say that … and there are always assassins.”

“They’ll get over it. Someday.”

“Yeah, about the time I run out of stories.”

He followed her down a narrow path, the others behind them, and into a room that was absolutely filled with her work. She spent a lot of time down here, then. On a shelf lay a twisted piece of metal. She picked it up, cooing at it. “There you are.” Beaming in triumph, she turned to him, holding it up. “I made this to lock off the entrance, so no one else could get in, but then …”

Varric swallowed. He should have known. He had known—something deep in his gut had told him, and he had ignored it, because … Bianca. “But then you gave it to someone.” His voice echoed in his ears as though it was coming from a long way off.

Next to him, Stones growled softly. “You?” he asked.

Hawke was shaking her head; Varric could practically feel it. It was sweet of her to be outraged on his behalf, but this was his fault, too. Whatever Bianca had done, it was because he had told her about this place. And the red lyrium. And everything. 

“Don’t you see?” Bianca said. “They won’t be able to use this entrance again.”

“Oh, we see,” Stones said, in his dangerous voice, calm and reasonable. 

“Bianca …”

She met Varric’s gaze defiantly. “What?”

Stones started to speak, then looked at Varric and thought better of it. 

“Andraste’s ass, Bianca, why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I … I thought we could just fix it.”

“How is this even possible? What did you do?” It was as angry as he ever allowed himself to get, and he was holding on to his temper as hard as he could to keep it from climbing any further.

“When you told me the location, I went and had a look for myself.”

“Of course you did.” Hawke rolled her eyes.

Bianca ignored her. “I found the red lyrium … and I studied it.”

Varric closed his eyes, briefly, nodding. How had he not known she would? Because she was Bianca. It was the answer for everything. “How could you?” he asked her, angry as much because she had compromised her own safety as because she had betrayed him. “You know what it does to people!”

“I know what I’m doing,” she snapped. “And besides, I was doing you a favor.”

“Well, please don’t do me any more of those!”

“Come on, Varric, you want to know how this stuff works as much as I do!”

“No, I don’t! I never did. I want it to go away and leave me alone. I’d have been happy to seal the thaig off and never think about it again.”

“You could have been killed—or worse—and for what?” Stones asked. “What was so valuable it was worth risking your life, worth … this?” He waved his hand, encompassing the entire red lyrium operation that had already killed so many people, and would certainly kill more.

“Knowledge!” Bianca answered, as though the Inquisitor was especially thick not to have realized that himself. “You’re not going to beat Corypheus with ignorance.”

“And what did you find out?” Sparkler asked. He, too, thirsted for knowledge—Varric could see the curiosity glittering in his eyes. He didn’t envy either of them that drive, or where it took them.

“It has the Blight,” Bianca said. She was too excited by her discovery to be aware that no one, other than Sparkler, shared her enthusiasm. “Do you know what that means?”

“If it has the Blight … then it’s alive. Lyrium is a living being!” Sparkler’s tone was hushed, almost reverent.

“Great. Two deadly things combining to form something super-awful. That’s what we’re all excited about?” Varric said.

“What does this have to do with Corypheus finding the thaig?” the Seeker asked coolly, her uncompromising tone shaking Bianca out of the giddiness of knowledge shared.

“I … couldn’t get any further on my own, so I looked for a Grey Warden mage. Blight and magical expertise all in one, right?”

“And?”

“I found this guy, Larius. He seemed really interested in helping my research. So I gave him the key.”

“Larius?” Hawke asked sharply. “He wasn’t a mage.”

“He wasn’t into research, either,” Varric said. He and Hawke looked at each other, the same sickening thought in their minds.

“That’s how he got out … somehow Corypheus possessed Larius.”

“Can he do that?” Stones asked.

“It’s the only answer that makes sense. Oh, Maker, this really is all our fault.” Hawke’s face crumpled in misery.

“You couldn’t have known,” Sparkler said, putting a comforting hand on her arm.

Bianca looked as contrite as Varric had ever seen her. “I didn’t realize what had happened until you wrote about finding the red lyrium at Haven. I came here to see what was going on, and I found all this. Then I went to you.” She hesitated. “I know I screwed up, but … we did fix it. It’s as right as I can make it.”

Hawke and the Seeker’s disapproval was loud and clear; Stones was clearly pissed; Sparkler understood her drive for knowledge. And Varric? He didn’t know what to think.

“This isn’t one of your machines,” he said to her. “You can’t just replace a part and make everything right!”

“But I can try, can’t I?”

If he hadn’t known her so well, he might have thought there were tears glimmering in her eyes. Bianca never cried. There was too much of her own machines in her for that.

“Varric?” she asked, waiting for his response, but he didn’t have one. “What am I supposed to do, wallow in my mistakes forever, kicking myself, telling stories of what I should have done?” Her voice rose as she attacked, his own modus operandi clear in her accusation.

“Oh, like I would ever write about my own mistakes,” he shot back bitterly. She was one of them; she knew all too well that the real stories were the ones he never told.

The others had withdrawn back toward the entrance to the room, leaving them alone, but Varric didn’t know what to say. He was angry, and disappointed, and tired of being duped by his own heart. “We’ve done all we can here. Bianca … you’d better get home before someone misses you.”

“Varric.” There was a plea in her voice that tugged at his heart—her heart, really; she owned it—but he couldn’t listen to it. Not right now.

“Don’t worry about it,” he muttered, because he couldn’t help it, because he knew he would forgive her the way he always did. He backed away from her, unable to look up, not wanting to see her face right now, and so he didn’t see her leave the room.

He walked with Hawke all the way back out of the damned Deep Roads, vowing that this really was the last time. Never again. Hawke was silent, letting him stew, which he was grateful for.  
Only once they were outside in the sunshine again, both of them breathing a sigh of relief at the warmth, did she ask if he was all right.

“Who knows,” he snapped, then felt guilty for it. Hawke didn’t deserve his anger; quite the opposite, really. “I mean, I’m glad to have answers, but … shit.”

“Did you know?”

“No. Maybe. Sort of. I should have known, let’s put it that way. The second she showed up here, I should have known. Part of me did know. I just …”

“I get it. Trust me, I get it,” Hawke told him, and he wondered if she was thinking about His Royal Messiness. 

“I’m sorry, Hawke. I let all this happen. I gave her the thaig. And … I am not good at dealing with shit like this.”

“Don’t you think I know that? Besides, I’m the one who let Larius live. Fenris was going to kill him, remember?”

Varric grinned. “So this is all Broody’s fault? I can live with that.” Then he sobered. “But I really don’t, you know.”

“Don’t what?”

“Deal with things.”

“I know. Neither do I.”

“Fine pair we make. You know that if the Seeker hadn’t dragged me here, I’d be sitting in Kirkwall right now with my feet up, scribbling my stories and pretending none of this was happening.”

Hawke looked at him affectionately, and he felt warmed by her, glad that she was here. “No, you wouldn’t. You’d have found a way to be where the best stories are. It’s what you do.” They walked along a little while, enjoying being together again, before Hawke asked, “You think you’ll see Bianca again?”

Varric nodded. “I always do. I just hope she gives me a little time before she shows up again—I could use it.”


	41. Blackwall

Leliana sighed, looking around Blackwall’s barn workshop unhappily. “He is gone.”

“And you don’t know where he is?” There was skepticism in Cullen’s tone.

“No. No, I don’t. The last known whereabouts of Warden Blackwall before we found him in the Hinterlands are from years ago, when he left Jader on a recruiting mission just before the Blight. Since then, he has no contacts, no history …”

Alistair, leaning against the barn door, said, “He’s not a Grey Warden.”

“Yes. Which suggests that he is certainly therefore not Blackwall.”

Cullen looked from one to the other of them. “He isn’t? Then who, or what, is he?”

“The Void of a fighter, is what he is,” Alistair commented. “That’s why I didn’t tell anyone but Leliana when I knew he wasn’t a Warden.”

“And why I told no one at all. I did look into his past, but he could be anyone Warden Blackwall came into contact with after he left Jader, which leaves me with no indication of where he might have gone.” Leliana was sorting through the carefully laid out tools on the workbench, as if one of them might give her a clue. She looked up at Cullen. “Send someone for Scout Harding, will you? I believe she is still in Skyhold.”

Cullen nodded, going to collect the scout himself.

Harding looked as down as he had ever seen her. “This is about Blackwall? I thought as much. It’s why I didn’t leave.”

“Do you know where he is?”

She shook her head. “Only this note he left for me, which says he’s sorry and he never meant to hurt me.”

Cullen took the note, turning it over in his hands. It was written on a scrap of paper, with some writing on the back. Some kind of broadsheet.

Back at the barn, he turned the paper over to Leliana while she was grilling Harding. The scout knew nothing more than she had told him, and he felt sad to have to rake her over the coals when she clearly was heartsick over Blackwall’s desertion.

Leliana looked at the back of the paper. “This was missing from last week’s reports! I see my mark there on the bottom.” She frowned at the few lines of writing that remained. “Lieutenant Cyril Mornay? Where have I heard that name before?” Alistair started to speak, but Leliana held up a hand, her face abstracted in thought. “I have it! There was a massacre years ago, of a lord and his family, and Mornay was part of that.”

“And this has something to do with Blackwall? Or whoever he is?” Alistair asked.

“It must. Why else would he have stolen this from my reports?” Leliana sighed. “Mornay is being executed in Val Royeaux; someone will have to go there to look for Blackwall.”

Both Cullen and Alistair groaned. “Back to Val Royeaux?” 

“I’m afraid so, and with the Inquisitor in the Hinterlands …” She let the words trail off, looking at the two men significantly.

If possible, they both groaned louder, but Leliana wasn’t to be moved. She simply stood there and looked at them until they were done complaining.

“I’ll go, too,” Harding volunteered, but Leliana frowned at her. 

“I don’t think so. Whatever there is to find … if you are to see him again, it should not be in the midst of a crowd.”

Harding looked very much as though she wanted to argue, but Leliana made sense.

Abruptly, she said, “I believe I will go with you. Josie can hold down the fort here, as the saying goes.”

Cullen raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t object. 

So the three of them, and Leliana’s increasingly present shadow, Nathaniel Howe, journeyed back to Val Royeaux. They were feted there, put up in an embarrassingly lush hotel, after what the Inquisitor had done at the Winter Palace—and Alistair, as well. The King of Ferelden seemed a bit embarrassed by the Orlesians’ enthusiasm for him.

The four of them attended the hanging, a rather noticeable group, especially since the crowd had moved out of the way to give them space. 

An armored soldier was reading the charges against Mornay, a small man who knelt on the scaffold looking weary and defeated. He didn’t appear to hear the charges, or care much about what was about to happen to him. Cullen imagined most of Mornay’s caring had occurred while he was on the run, hiding from the consequences of his crimes. He had a hard time feeling badly for the man.

Mornay was asked to speak in his own defense, but he remained silent, his eyes on the sky high above them. The headsman hauled him to his feet, draping the noose around his neck. Cullen was sickened. He believed in the rule of law, but to stand here, as this crowd was doing, and watch a man lose his life … for some kind of entertainment? That wasn’t right.

“And they call Fereldans barbaric,” Alistair muttered under his breath.

The soldier stepped back. “Proceed.”

But before the headsman could open the trapdoor beneath Mornay’s feet, suddenly another man was on the platform.

“What is he doing?” Leliana said softly, recognizing the familiar black beard at the same time Cullen did.

“Stop!” Blackwall called out. “This man is innocent of the crimes laid before him. Orders were given, and he followed them like any good soldier.”

A murmur swept through the crowd, who were loving the novelty of Blackwall’s sudden appearance.

“What is he trying to do?” Alistair asked.

But Cullen knew. A sick sensation churned in his stomach, worse than his reaction to this public hanging. Blackwall had been the leader; it was he who had given the order for a woman and her children to be killed. There could be no other reason.

“He should not die for following orders!” Blackwall shouted.

The soldier stepped toward him. “Then find me the man who gave that order.”

Next to Cullen, Leliana sighed and Alistair groaned. On the scaffold, Blackwall turned, his eyes finding the Inquisition people in the crowd. “He stands before you. Many of you know me as the Grey Warden Blackwall, but I am not. I never have been. He is dead, and has been for years.” He looked away from the Inquisition, down at his boots. “I assumed his name, hiding like the coward I am from my own, and from the consequences of my own deeds.”

Mornay spoke for the first time. “After all this time, it is you.” He looked as though he was seeing a ghost. Cullen suspected he must have thought his former commander dead long ago.

“Yes.” Blackwall didn’t look up at his former subordinate. “I gave the order. The crime is mine. My name is Thom Rainier.”

The crowd’s reaction said they knew that name much better than Cullen did.

Nathaniel spoke under his breath. “Your Inquisition seems to be playing host to any number of disgraced former noblemen.”

“He was a tremendous fighter,” Alistair said, equally softly.

The soldier and the headsman caught Blackwall by the arms. He didn’t resist as he was hauled off the scaffold and away. Mornay was released and taken back to his cell, presumably, to await Celene’s judgment on his level of culpability. At the very least, he wouldn’t hang today. But how many of Blackwall’s former men had already hung for his crime? How many had suffered while he was hiding who he truly was?

Leliana turned to Cullen. “They will take him to the city jail. Will you go there and speak to him while I look into our options?”

“Don’t you wish to wait for the Inquisitor?”

She shook her head. “There is no time to get a message across the mountains and back, not before they determine what to do. We have this window of time in which to act, and act we must.”

Cullen glanced at the two Grey Wardens, but both were nodding. He was surprised that neither was more angry at Blackwall’s—Rainier’s—impersonation of a Warden. Himself, he thought a man who abandoned his men and ran and hid, leaving them to face the music, richly deserved to bear the full weight of the consequences coming to him … but Leliana was determined, and he would do her bidding, at least so far as speaking to the man was concerned.

Nathaniel went with Leliana, hovering at her shoulder as he did so often these days, and Alistair fell into step next to Cullen.

“If you think I will not go after him with everything I have, just because you’re here, you are sadly mistaken,” Cullen told him. "Leliana has something of a blind spot when it comes to Wardens, but then, you know that. Apparently it extends to those who pretend to be Wardens but aren’t.” Cullen made no attempt to keep the long-held bitterness from his voice. He, too, had loved Leyden Amell, long before the Wardens took her. Leliana and Alistair had never known the true Leyden … or so he told himself.

To his surprise, Alistair didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, his lip curled with a bitterness deep enough to match Cullen’s own. “True.”

Neither of them made any further comment, and they walked in silence to the jail. They were immediately led in to speak to the prisoner, who sat in his cell staring at his hands. He didn’t lift his head as they walked in.

“You could have told me, you know,” Alistair began.

“I told you that he died fighting darkspawn.”

“Yes, but you didn’t tell me about you.”

“That was my secret to keep. Until it wasn’t.” Rainier’s hands clenched together.

“Why did you pretend to be Blackwall, once he was dead?” Cullen asked.

“To stop the world from losing a good man. To take from it a man who didn’t deserve the name. I tried my best to be Blackwall, to live as he would have lived, to do right by those I met in his name.” Rainier’s face twisted in grief. “It wasn’t enough. I should have known it would never be enough.”

“A good man steps in to keep another from dying in his place,” Alistair said. “You did that.”

“Too late.” He looked up at them. “Why are you here?”

Alistair stepped up to the bars. “Because you aren’t alone. Because a man can make mistakes—terrible mistakes—and still be forgiven for them. Because the man you became is worth saving.”

Cullen looked at the King in surprise. He wouldn’t have expected Alistair to be so vehement. Was it possible that Alistair saw something of himself in this disgraced non-Warden in front of him?

Rainier got to his feet, rage and anguish in his face. “Don’t you understand?” he shouted. “I gave the order to kill Lord Callier, and his entourage, and I lied to my men about what they were doing. And when the truth of what we had done came to light … I ran.”

Disgust twisted Cullen’s stomach, and he felt the familiar headache coming on, his hands flexing, reaching for the lyrium that no longer ran in his blood. There was no question in his mind that the man before him deserved to die—or that Rainier knew it, too. 

“Those men— _my_ men—paid for my treason while I was pretending to be a better man!” There was a plea in Rainier’s voice. He wanted to be left, he wanted to pay the price for what he had done. If it had been up to Cullen, they would have turned and walked away and left him here to atone as best he could.

“Have some faith in yourself, man, in your own worth,” Alistair snapped. “You are better than this! You have more to offer the world.”

Rainier bent his head, weeping. “I have nothing. I _am_ nothing. I deserve to die.”

Cullen rolled his eyes and left the jail. Alistair watched him go, understanding in some ways why the ex-Templar had such a problem with what Rainier had done. Cullen was a leader, a commander. He took seriously the needs of the men under his command, and he took responsibility for their welfare. 

But Alistair knew how a mistake could be made; how you could promise to do something and then find it all gone wrong under your feet and you in a position you should never have been in in the first place. Ferelden would have been better off if he had left Anora on the throne. He knew that now—had known it then. Who knew what harm he had caused with his inept bumbling? It could be worse than Rainier’s single order. He couldn’t bring himself to condemn a man for a tragic error, especially when it was so clear how hard Rainier had tried to make amends.

“What exactly did you do?” he asked, his even, reasonable tones somehow breaking through Rainier’s sobs.

Struggling to get control of himself, Rainier said, “I betrayed the Empire and assassinated a general, with his wife and his children and his retainers. For gold.”

“Oh.” That was bad. Very bad. Even Alistair had trouble forgiving it. 

“You see? Don’t waste your time on me, Your Majesty.”

“Did you know the family would be there? I mean, did you—“

“I know what you mean. And no. I’m a monster, but not such a one as that. By the time I knew he had his family with him, it was too late to call it off.”

“And your men? Did they not object?”

Rainier shook his head. “I told them they were defending their country. They believed me. Maker knows why. I didn’t deserve their loyalty.”

“Because you ran?”

“Because I was a greedy, arrogant fool. But also because I ran.” Rainier sighed, sinking down on the cot, the springs squeaking beneath him. “Blackwall found me in a tavern while I was on the run. I was a waste of life, a drunken sot, but he saw something in me, wanted to recruit me.”

“Wardens take all kinds, deserving or not.” Alistair thought of Loghain, of how angry he had been when Leyden suggested recruiting the former Hero of River Dane. Had she done it, he couldn’t have stayed, not for her or anyone … but she should have, nonetheless. He could see that now, years too late. 

“So Blackwall said. I agreed to come along—he had a way with words, and I nothing else to do with my wasted life—and we headed for Val Chevin for the Joining, but he wanted to stop on the way.”

“So that you could kill a darkspawn and gain a vial of its blood.” How Alistair remembered that first sight of a darkspawn, how it had turned his stomach.

Rainier nodded. “Yes. But while I was in the Deep Roads, Blackwall was ambushed. By the time I reached him …” His voice deepened as he continued. “It should have been me who died, not him. So I saw to it that he lived and Thom Rainier died in his place. I became the man he would have wanted to be, tried to be the man he would have been. But it didn’t help; the memory of what I had done never left me.”

“So why didn’t you go on to Val Chevin and go through the Joining?”

“I … was a coward. Without Blackwall, there was no proof I had been recruited, no proof that I didn’t kill him myself. I was afraid of being brought to justice for a crime I didn’t commit, while running from being brought to justice for a crime I had.” He gave a rusty chuckle. “What a fool I was.”

“We’re all fools at one time or another.”

There was a world of pain in Rainier’s eyes as he looked up. “Are you drawing parallels in your mind between us, Your Majesty? Don’t waste your time. Leave me be; this is where I belong.”

He lay back on the cot, covering his eyes with his forearm. Alistair stood looking at him for a long moment, then turned and left the jail.

Outside, he found Cullen and Leliana in the middle of a heated argument, while Nathaniel Howe leaned against a wall nearby with his arms folded, looking supremely uninterested. Alistair ignored him and plowed into the midst of the argument.

“You can’t tell me you didn’t know! One of the Inquisitor’s companions, and you didn’t have a full dossier?” Cullen shouted.

“Of course I looked,” Leliana snapped. “There was nothing to find. He’s been a ghost for years now.”

“If he weren’t a Warden, you would have found that suspicious.”

“What does it matter who knew when?” Alistair asked, earning himself glares from both parties. “The point is, what are we going to do about it?”

“Rainier has accepted his fate,” Cullen said, his jaw jutting out stubbornly. “I say we do the same.”

“There are other options,” Alistair argued. “He could go to the Wardens, for one, be who he was supposed to be all along.”

Leliana nodded. “We have resources; we do not have to leave him here. At the very least, we should have him brought back to Skyhold so the Inquisitor can decide what to do.”

“I thought you said there was no time.”

“There wasn’t, but once we have him at Skyhold, there is.” Leliana looked up at Cullen, and Alistair could see her reining in her temper, see her reminding herself that she respected Cullen and his opinions. “Could you really leave him here?”

Cullen began to retort automatically, but he, too, caught himself, sighing heavily. At last, he shook his head. “What he did to the men under his command was … reprehensible. A commander has a responsibility to the men who follow his orders, and he abandoned them.”

“He doesn’t deny that,” Alistair pointed out.

“Not denying it doesn’t absolve him of the responsibility.”

“Or the guilt,” Leliana said. “He has suffered that all this time.”

“As well he should have,” Cullen snapped. “He betrayed their trust; and then he betrayed ours. I cannot deny that I despise him for it.”

“But?”

Cullen nodded at Leliana, acknowledging that she had heard the equivocation in his voice correctly. “But he fought as a Warden. He joined the Inquisition and gave his blood for our cause, many times over. He had shaken off his past completely … and yet, now he turns around and owns up to it.”

“To save another man’s life.” Alistair nodded. “He didn’t need to do that.”

“No. He could have avoided it altogether; no one would ever have known.”

“He wanted to change,” Leliana said. “He wanted to prove to himself that he had really left his past behind—and in order to do that, he had to own up to it. It takes courage to do what he did today.”

“I don’t deny that it does.” Cullen shook his head. “If it were me, I could not fight next to him again. But I also don’t know if I can truly allow him to be put to death, either.”

Leliana looked at him for a moment, as if deciding, and then she said, briskly, “The Orlesians will not hang him until they hear from the Inquisitor. They have granted us that much leeway. But he dare not take too much time.”

Watching them, it was on the tip of Alistair’s tongue to say that he would personally demand Rainier’s release … but Rainier had been Thule’s companion, and Thule had a right to make that decision himself. He would wait … but if Thule determined to leave Rainier to be hanged, Alistair would act.


	42. Another Dilemma

Varric didn’t even bother to look at the name written on the package the page handed him. It was the same square corners and neat brown wrapping and complicated knot of twine the others had been. And he knew that knot—it was the shape his heart had been tied into since the day he’d met Bianca.

Picking the small box up gingerly with two fingers, he tossed it over his shoulder and into the fire. After a while, whatever was inside began to pop and squeal and hiss. Eventually it gave a sharp bang, causing Ruffles and a snooty noble from Antiva to jump.

He looked up at them, smiling. “Sometimes a story just has to end with a bang, don’t you think?”

The noble smiled back awkwardly, not certain if he was being serious or not, and Ruffles gave one of her best glares in Varric’s direction. It was almost scary. There was only one woman scarier, and she was all Varric could think of. His thoughts mostly tended toward thinking about how much he didn’t want to think about her … but they all had her name underlying them, her sweet face hovering just at the back of them.

Hawke had been sweet to try to convince him that she shared some of the blame for all this shit, but it was ever more clear that he had been at the bottom of all of it: the thaig, the red lyrium, Corypheus, and now this. Betrayed by the one woman he had trusted above all others—and betrayed so predictably, too. How had he not known Bianca would want to study the stuff, that she would go as far as she needed to in order to learn? It was who she was; it was what he loved about her, that incorrigible curiosity, that hunger to learn. And that was the damnable part of it all—he couldn’t even blame her. She had acted exactly according to her nature, and what she was learning was valuable. Red lyrium as a living entity? That meant something. Someday it would be important, and she would have found it out. But at what cost? And that was what Bianca never saw. The work, the knowledge, the study always meant more to her than the people they touched.

But the people were Varric’s bread and butter, his consuming interest. Where she saw a puzzle to solve, he saw the pain and the humor and the love woven into the mystery. It was why she kept sending him fancy little doodads as an apology, because she thought that was all it took, and why he threw them out but couldn’t bring himself to send them back, because he knew she would never understand. Not really.

What had he done to himself, that this was where his life had come to? A decade-long relationship with a woman who really only loved her work, and one he wasn’t allowed to officially go near, to boot, and a whole lot of money made off of other people’s stories, and days spent slogging through the mud and the marsh and the mountains after stronger, braver people who let him tag along and pretend he was making a difference in the world?

He looked down at the blank page in front of him, reached into the equally blank space in his mind for words that simply weren’t there right now, and sighed. “Varric, old boy, you’re a mess, do you know that?” he muttered to himself.

A passing page stared at him, wide-eyed, and he pretended not to notice. Let her stare at the famous dwarf author talking to himself. Why not? Cultivating a reputation as an eccentric old curmudgeon seemed to be all that was left for him now—he might as well embrace it.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule stuck his hands in his pockets as he shuffled across the courtyard. Between Bianca’s betrayal of Varric by giving the thaig, and red lyrium, to Corypheus and the news about Blackwall’s imposture, not to mention the constant nagging worry that he was about to lose Cassandra to the Sunburst Throne, it had been a long week. And of course, the problem with being the guy at the top was that there was no one to foist any of these issues, or the myriad others waiting for his attention, off on. There was nothing to be done about Bianca; that horse was well and truly out of the barn now, no forcing it back in. And Cassandra would make her own decision sooner or later. But whether to leave Blackwall—Thom Rainier—languishing in an Orlesian jail cell … that was all on Thule. Leliana and Alistair thought he should go free because he had tried to be noble. Cullen thought he should stay there because he had betrayed his men, and apparently Rainier himself leaned in that direction as well. Thule didn’t care what the man deserved. He had to weigh the good of the Inquisition, rather than the good of the man. And the Inquisition could use Rainier’s sword arm … but it also needed the world to see that it wasn’t going to use its influence on a man who deserved the punishment he was about to get. 

It was in these moments that Thule blessed his time in the Carta. When he made the decision, he would act on it, and he wouldn’t look back. The Carta had drummed that into him—the good of the mission was paramount, because the good of the Carta lay behind the mission. All other concerns were secondary.

He climbed the steps to the keep, still stewing on where Rainier could do the most good for the Inquisition, passing by Varric, who was working, but without enthusiasm. Something had gone out of the other dwarf with the revelation of Bianca’s betrayal. Thule had been unimpressed with the threats she had made regarding Varric’s safety—it was her fault they were all in this mess, in a very real way, and if she cared so much about Varric she ought to have stayed and fought at his side. But all that was neither here nor there, because she had never intended to stay, and Varric was still here, and he was lost with her, evidently. Thule wondered what he could do for his friend.

“Inquisitor, my dear. Just the person I was looking for.”

He looked up, and up, at Lady Vivienne. It was a lovely view he had of her charms, at his height, and she well knew it, as he could see by the widening of her smile. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked.

“I wondered if you had a moment for a brief chat.”

“Of course.”

He followed her up to the sitting area she had claimed—a plummy spot, just above the main doors, always sunny because of the large windows, and commanding an excellent view of both courtyards. No wonder she always seemed so certain of herself. Clearly she took steps to make sure she knew as much as was possible about what was going on. Thule wondered if he had underestimated her.

He took a seat on a beautifully upholstered settee, one low enough that he felt comfortable on it but high enough that he didn’t feel like a child, while Vivienne stretched out her long legs on the settee opposite. 

“I do apologize for tearing you away from your duties, my dear. I know you must have a great deal on your mind, but I need to speak with you.”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for the substance.

Vivienne nodded, getting straight to business. He liked that she knew how to read a signal, and wasn’t going to waste his time with unnecessary pleasantries. “After the ball at the Winter Palace, the Inquisition’s influence has spread significantly, as you know. And you also know that the Grand Clerics are becoming increasingly desperate to name a successor to Justinia.”

Thule wasn’t surprised that she knew; Mother Hillaire was still here, and had not been quiet about the Grand Clerics’ intentions. “You think my influence and the Grand Clerics are connected? If they were, Mother Hillaire would have been sent packing when she first arrived.”

“Oh, my dear, in some ways you are such an innocent! If you had any less influence, the Chantry would have hauled their chosen candidates away by now, regardless of your wishes. The only reason Leliana and Cassandra are still here is because they fear courting your enmity.”

“Huh.” He digested that for a minute. It was gratifying … but also frightening, because it revealed the limits of his influence. He wasn’t going to be able to make this go away.

“Yes. You cannot keep them from looking in the most likely places for a successor, no matter how little you may want them to. Nor will they invite you to the vote. But you may still influence them, if you are clever, and think in less … expected directions.”

Thule was no slow top—he got her implication well enough. “You?”

Vivienne smiled at his perspicacity. “To sit on the Sunburst Throne, a candidate should have grace, charm, and a will of solid steel.”

He looked at her elegant form, at her lovely smile, and heard the implacability in her voice. “I see your point.”

“And, may I add, that in the absence of a better candidate … Leliana has the charm and grace, but she also has ideas that are unpalatable to many. Cassandra lacks those attributes, but there is no question of the strength of her will, and she is considered by most to be the more traditional candidate.” Vivienne delicately raised her eyebrows in a “need I say more?” gesture.

Thule felt much as he imagined a fly must when the spider has trapped him inescapably, only in this case, he had built the web himself. He also felt a flash of concern—if Vivienne knew him well enough to use his affection for Cassandra against him, how many others knew he could be reached through her as well? That was something to consider. He should talk to Cassandra about it. No, no, he really shouldn’t, he thought, both amused and alarmed that even in this situation, his first thought was to share his burden with Cassandra.

Vivienne was smiling at him, and he felt he had allowed this conversation to continue too far under her steam. “So what would your ideal Divine do with her power?” he asked.

“Restore the Circles and the Templars, of course. I know, Leliana believes mages can govern themselves, but we have seen that their self-control has limits, and someone must be there to police them beyond those limits. Those institutions have protected Thedas for ages; they cannot be tossed aside lightly without serious repercussions, as I believe we are all learning to our cost. We cannot allow anarchists to continue to threaten the lives of the innocent.”

Thule had a hard time arguing with that point. An uncontrolled, and uncontrollable, mage was a danger to everyone. 

Vivienne went on, “After we have restored sanity to the world, there will be time then to address voices of dissent and to begin reorganization sensibly, with some forethought and care.”

She made a good case, he had to admit. Thule cleared his throat and got to his feet. “I will give this careful consideration.”

“I knew you would. And with proper guidance, I have no doubt that you will steer the Grand Clerics in the proper direction.”

“I wouldn’t count on anything,” he said, nettled by how smoothly she assumed she had made her case.

“Naturally not, of course. Corypheus remains to be dealt with, and that is a threat far greater than that of a leaderless Chantry. We can all agree on that. But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that we must all be very aware of what we do and say, for the Conclave is most certainly doing the same.”

“The Conclave, the Carta, the Merchants’ Guild, Tevinter, Orlais, Ferelden, Weisshaupt … you name it, they’re all watching us.”

“Such is the way of nations,” Vivienne agreed. “However, in this case, we have the opportunity to turn that oversight into our advantage. The Conclave is looking to the Inquisition to provide a sign of the Maker’s will. It is your decision whether we will give them one.” She got to her feet, smiling down at him. “And in my experience, you are quite good at making the right decision.”

“Well, I thank you for the vote of confidence, Lady Vivienne,” he said, grinning at the openness of her flattery. She clearly subscribed to the theory that if you want a bitter pill to go down easily, you coat it in lots of honey. The question, however, remained. Was she right? Was she the best candidate? Would he be jeopardizing Thedas if he gave Vivienne to the Chantry in order to keep Leliana and Cassandra here where they were needed—and wanted, in the latter case? 

Just what he’d wanted. Another dilemma.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen rolled up his sleeve, watching Dagna as she tied the tourniquet around his upper arm and searched for a vein with her syringe. It didn’t bother him to feel the sharp prick of the needle or watch it sink into his skin, although he was bemused after so many years of taking lyrium to watch the blood come out rather than the lyrium go in.

“Almost done,” Dagna said reassuringly. “You can relax.” She took off the tourniquet to let the blood flow freely into the tube.

Relax. Cullen tried, but he had never quite grasped the concept. Always, from childhood, he had been earnest. Driven. Trying to do his best, to get everything right. That left little space for being able to let go and leave things to the Maker, many times though he had tried to learn how.

Dagna smiled, understanding him without him needing to speak, as she did so often. “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you? That helps sometimes.” She withdrew the needle, clamping a piece of cloth down over the insertion site. “Here, hold this.”

Cullen did so, watching as she took the vial of blood over to her worktable. “It’s nothing.”

“You always say that, and it never is. Spill.”

He smiled. She knew him well. “It’s this thing with Warden Blackwall. Er, Thom Rainier.”

“Oh. That’s bothering a lot of people. Lace was down here yesterday; she’s devastated.”

It surprised Cullen not at all that Dagna and Scout Harding were friends—both skilled in their chosen paths, both cheerful and considerate of others. He was saddened by Harding’s pain. It was easy to forget that amidst Rainier’s crimes he had done many good things. The Inquisition’s children missed him and the toys he made, as well. “I wish I thought there was a happy ending for them.”

Dagna turned to look at him. “Don’t you?”

“No. Rainier confessed to his crimes when he didn’t have to. He is ready to pay for what he’s done—he expects to. And … I believe he is too damaged to think of himself as an appropriate choice for a woman, especially one of Harding’s quality.” He wasn’t blind to the parallels in the situation. He wasn’t in a physical jail, but he dwelt in a prison nonetheless.

There was an unwonted seriousness in Dagna’s face as she held his gaze, indicating she understood the deeper meaning as well. “Damage can’t be fixed on your own, Cullen. You need other people to help you heal.”

“And if you harm the other person beyond repair in the process? What then?”

“It can be just as harmful to be pushed away, to have to watch someone you lo—care about struggle against their torments alone, knowing you could help if they would only let you.”

“I have let you, Dagna,” Cullen said, nodding toward the table of vials. It was the first time he had spoken even this openly to her about her feelings for him.

“I know, but only so far and no farther … and only that because I insisted and so did the Inquisitor. Cullen, you have to let me in. I know …” She took a step toward him, her small fingers covering the hand that still held the cloth over his wound. “I know everything you’ve been through, everything that’s been done to you and I’m still here, trying to help. Can’t you try to trust me with your—with more?”

She was very close to him, her green eyes bright with hope and unshed tears, and Cullen thought she was beautiful. How had he never noticed how beautiful she was before? But she asked too much. More than was good for her, more than he could safely yield. He tugged his arm away. “I’m sorry. I can’t,” he muttered, and he hurried from the Undercroft.

It was warmer in the keep, but he was chilled to the bone, wondering what he had lost in letting fear drive him from her. He tried to imagine a life without her cheery presence in it, and it felt dismal indeed.


	43. To Find Your Place

Alistair found Morrigan in the garden, kneeling next to a plant and methodically stripping off its leaves. She looked up as he approached and got gracefully to her feet, brushing the dirt off her bare knees. Any other woman of her looks he would have found fetching, kneeling here in the garden and tending plants—but not Morrigan. Where she was concerned, he mostly worried about what vile brew she was planning to create with those leaves.

“So. You have returned from Orlais, and now you have come to me to find out why I revealed to you the truth about your precious Leyden.”

“Got it in one.”

“Naturally. You are easier to read than a mabari.”

“Mabari are very intelligent animals!”

“Exactly.” Morrigan actually smiled at how neatly he had walked into that one, and Alistair frowned.

“Do you really get that much entertainment out of insulting me?”

“Truthfully, no. It requires too little work to accomplish.”

He rolled his eyes. “And there she goes again.”

“Ask your question, Alistair. Once these leaves wilt they are of limited use.”

“I’ll just walk with you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You wish me to take you to my room?”

“No! Maker, no. Fine,” he snapped, as she smiled again, mocking him. “Why did you tell me about the ritual?”

“The ritual that never was? Because you deserved to know.”

“Because you wanted to torment me.”

“Is that truly what you think? Why should I have needed to tell you the truth in order to torture you? You had accomplished that task quite nicely all on your own … well, with a little help from Leyden herself, and from those who would call themselves your friends. You have clung to the memory of a dead woman to keep from living your life, you have pined for a love that existed largely in your head, and you have neglected the great work of ruling your nation that was given you to do while you moped about and wished to be loved. Tell me, Alistair, how much more thoroughly could I have tortured you?”

He stared at her, unable to speak. Because she was right; he knew she was right. He had hurt himself far, far worse than she had any power to do. And in all of this, Morrigan, shockingly enough, was the most blameless. She, at least, had tried to offer a solution, to save Leyden’s life, as he himself had begged to be allowed to do. 

Morrigan was watching him, a carefully measured amount of sympathy in her eyes. “You see it now, do you not?” 

“Yes, I see it,” Alistair admitted grudgingly. “But why now?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I have not seen you since that night.”

“You could have written.”

“Oh, indeed, I am certain you would have accepted a letter from me and not torn it up on sight.”

“Yes, all right, I would have,” Alistair conceded.

“A better question is why Leliana had not told you, since she was listening that night, and knew what happened. But we both know that the reaction of every woman you have ever met—except for me, it appears—is to wrap you in cotton wool and pretend that you are too fragile to be allowed to think for yourself. You enjoy that, don’t you, Alistair?”

“No.” It was the truth, he told himself … but it wasn’t, either. Because he liked being coddled, and pretending to be too stupid to know things, and acting as though he was too much of a bumbler to be a good king—or any king at all, for that matter.

“You know as well as I do that is a lie.” Morrigan looked at the leaves in her hand. “I must go. And so must you. Alistair, do not waste any more of your life on lies. For all our sakes.”

She turned and walked away, her hips swaying beneath the leather skirt. Could that be the same one? Alistair wondered. Surely not. Not that it mattered what Morrigan wore. It mattered that what she had said was right. He had to stop lying to himself—and he had to decide whether his destiny was to take the throne he had inherited from a father and a brother he’d never known and make it his, or whether his destiny somehow lay elsewhere.

But he’d never made a major decision like this for himself, and as he walked through the garden he realized he wasn’t entirely certain how.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
There was utter silence here in the back of Skyhold. It was a silence Leliana had counted on, that and the darkness of the dead of night. It was hard to explain to herself what she had done; it would be harder to explain to Thule, once that became necessary. When informed of Blackwall’s true name and the nature of his crimes, the dwarf had looked as angry as Leliana had ever seen him, and he had said that if Blackwall/Rainier wanted to languish in prison, it was probably the best place for him.

But even in the face of the Inquisitor washing his hands of the situation, Leliana couldn’t let it go. So she had quietly arranged for Blackwall—Rainier. She must start thinking of him as Rainier. She had arranged for Rainier to be transferred to her custody. It had cost her a great deal in traded favors, favors she had saved up over many years … but she felt better now that it was accomplished.

Carefully she unlocked the side gate. It was at the end of a hidden path around the fortress, in a part of Skyhold where only the scullery maids typically came. Compost piles littered the area, the smell rank and rich.

And of course, Leliana’s ever-present shadow was by her side, lounging against the wall, acting in his role as her self-appointed conscience. She wondered why she put up with Nathaniel, given that he so rarely had anything to say that she wanted to hear.

But then, she thought, twisting the key in the lock that held the gate closed, no one else was willing to tell her the things she needed to hear. Even Josie couched her rare criticisms in her politest tones. And Thule was often less than pleased, but his chosen methods of expressing that displeasure involved his personal brand of frankness and charm and direct ordering. Nathaniel, on the other hand, took a positive pleasure in telling Leliana everything he thought she needed to be told. And he had said a mouthful about this particular decision. As a Warden, Nathaniel was both bemused and a bit offended at Rainier’s imposture, and generally seemed of Thule’s mindset that he should be left to suffer in the bed he had made for himself.

Leliana got the gate open, poking her head out. The man in the black clothes who had been paid to deliver her the prisoner was standing there, as was Rainier, his head bowed and his hands shackled. A certain letter, carefully kept for just such an occasion, changed hands, the man in black bowed, and he was gone as if he had never been there.

Reaching for Rainier’s arm, Leliana pulled him inside Skyhold and locked the gate again.

“Now what?” Nathaniel said, so softly Leliana could barely hear him.

“Now we lock him away in the forgotten dungeons beneath Skyhold and wait.”

“Forgotten dungeons?” Rainier laughed bitterly. “Might as well be here as anywhere. I’m a man worth forgetting.”

“No argument,” Nathaniel told him.

“That is not true. You are a good man, and you tried your best to atone. Many of us have done worse—far worse—and been extolled for our actions.” Leliana put a hand on Rainier’s arm and guided him to the back door of the keep. “I just need to convince the Inquisitor to see it my way.”

“Why?”

Both men were looking at her, and Leliana cleared her throat, unable to come up with a good answer. “Because. All right? Because. Now, let’s find the dungeon.”

She led them down the dark hallways beneath the keep, which she had made it her business to memorize as soon as they had moved in, and locked Rainier away in the cell she had prepared for him. Food, water, candles, a few books. He would be comfortable there for several days.

In some ways, she thought maybe she envied him. A few days away from the world sounded a lot better than a desk full of dispatches, many of which had a death at the other end. Leliana didn’t regret what she had made of her life, but she couldn’t entirely forget that once she had been a Chantry sister, devoting her energies to life rather than death.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Lilias leaned on the edge of the stone wall, looking out over Skyhold. It was quiet up here on the back side of the battlements; most people tended to stay at the front, near the tavern and the entrance and Cullen’s office. She had been looking for solitude, so she came up the back stairs from the gardens.

It was lovely up here, with the sun shining down on her and the breeze ruffling her hair. She had been wearing it down while she stayed at Skyhold, but she’d have to start putting it up again when she started going out on expeditions. Assuming she ever got up the nerve to broach the subject with the Inquisitor. He was a friendly man, but she was hesitant to ask to take on any of his work—and she didn’t want to see in his all-too-open blue eyes that he didn’t think she was up to it anymore. The Champion of Kirkwall had been a long time ago; what if she had lost her edge?

She turned her head as the familiar red-and-white headdress of Mother Giselle came up the stairs. “I’m sorry, am I in your way?”

“Not in the least. In fact, I came up to speak with you.”

“With me?” Lilias was Andrastean, but she had never considered herself particularly devout. She didn’t know what she could do for the Chantry. Not to mention that the Chantry hadn’t wanted her to have anything to do with it in a long time, considering that she still bore a share of the guilt for what Anders had done. Not that that had been her fault, but … in the eyes of the world, he had been her companion, and that made her complicit. And she probably was. She should have seen how unhinged he was becoming and taken steps to deal with him. Instead, she had let him trick her into gathering ingredients for the very bomb he had used. That was on her shoulders, firmly and heavily.

Mother Giselle stood next to her, leaning her own elbows on the wall. “You are troubled.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“Yes, I suppose they are.”

Lilias shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

“You are struggling to find your place. Until you do, you will not have peace.”

“Sure, but it isn’t as though I can say I need to find my place and then, poof!, be there.”

Mother Giselle chuckled. “No. The Maker doesn’t deal in instant answers; He likes to see His people work toward their goals themselves.”

“Then there’s no shortcut.”

“Perhaps not … but you will not find what you are looking for hovering here above the gardens, holding back the questions you need to be asking.”

Lilias glanced over, seeing the smile on her face. “You’ve been talking to Josephine.”

“Perhaps. You may not believe this, Champion, but many of us believe in you—we believe your story is not over, and you have a great deal left to offer Thedas in general, and the Inquisition in particular. But you must believe in yourself, as well, or nothing will change.”

“I understand. Or … I think I do. But the last time I tried to do things for the benefit of Thedas in general, and Kirkwall in particular … well, we all know how that ended. And I’m afraid—“

“And that is your trouble. You are afraid. Fear paralyzes us. It keeps us from becoming who we need to be. Corypheus, and those like him, trade on fear. The Maker counts on us to overcome our fear.”

Lilias recognized the truth in what the other woman was saying, but she still felt that cold finger of doubt on her spine as she contemplated the possibility of taking a more active role. 

“Do something for me, will you, Champion?”

“What’s that?”

“Conquer your fear enough to speak to the Inquisitor. Do it today. And then if he believes in you enough to give you a task, then take his belief, and my own, and the Ambassador’s, and let them lift you up until you can believe in yourself again.”

Lilias thought about it for a moment, then decided. “All right. Yes. I’ll do that. Thank you, Mother Giselle.”

The Revered Mother nodded, straightening and moving toward the stairs. At the top she stopped and waited, looking pointedly back at Lilias, who smiled and joined her. Apparently “do it today” meant “do it now”. 

As they descended the steps, Mother Giselle hesitated visibly, then said, “There is something else I wanted to speak with you about.”

“What’s that?”

“One of the Inquisitor’s companions. The Tevinter.”

“Dorian?” Lilias asked in surprise. “What about him?”

“I … have been in contact with his family. House Pavus, out of Qarinus. Are you familiar with them?”

Lilias shook her head. 

“They have sent me a letter describing their estrangement with their son and pleading for my aid in effecting a reconciliation. But they wish it to be a secret, fearing that if he knew they were attempting to contact him, he would refuse.”

This conversation was giving rise to many questions in Lilias’s mind. She spoke the first one that came to mind. “Why are you asking me?”

“Well …” Mother Giselle cleared her throat. Nervously, Lilias thought. “The Inquisitor has many demands, and I had hoped that if I spoke to you …”

“I barely know Dorian.”

“Indeed. The family is concerned about his decision to take up with the Inquisition, to turn his back on his homeland. As a former refugee, I thought you could speak to him about—“

“Being stranded?”

Mother Giselle nodded. “Exactly.”

“But you also want me to facilitate his presence at a meeting without his knowledge.”

“Deceit is … not my usual means of operation, but in this case, the family greatly fears that Dorian’s pride will not allow him to bend. They believe that if he were to find himself in the same room with a family retainer, there would be a … softening in the young man.”

Lilias could imagine having the chance to see her own mother again. They had never gotten along, particularly, but there had never been open hostility, either. Perhaps this was a similar situation. But lying to someone she barely knew felt wrong. “I don’t understand why they would contact a member of the White Chantry rather than the Inquisitor himself, or the Ambassador.”

“The Chantries may be different, but they represent the same thing, something familiar to the family. They don’t know the Inquisitor, who is, after all, very different, and I believe they feared to go through official channels with Lady Josephine for the reasons I have already given.” She turned to Lilias. “If any good can come of this, we must try.”

“I don’t disagree with you, necessarily, but the secrecy doesn’t sit well with me. Frankly, it smells like a trap.”

“Such a question did occur to me, whether this is a plot by those mages, the Venatori. Another reason to put this in capable hands, Champion.”

“All right.” Lilias nodded. “I will speak to Dorian about this. However, I don’t want any part in dragging someone off to a family reunion they don’t want.”

“I feared you might say as much. Very well; I will respond to the family once you have spoken with the young man, letting them know if he has agreed to the rendezvous.”

“Where?”

“At the tavern in Redcliffe. A family retainer will be there to take him onward to meet with his parents.”

It still smelled like a trap to Lilias, which made her extremely curious what Dorian would say. She hadn’t spoken much with him, other than the trip to the Deep Roads; she hoped he wouldn’t take her interference in this matter amiss.


	44. In the Shadows

“Tell me, Josephine, do I really have to do this?” Thule opened the door a crack and looked out at the people gathered around the throne and then hastily shut the door again. “This wasn’t my idea.”

“I know it wasn’t, Inquisitor, but now that everyone knows he’s here, something has to be said publicly.” 

She didn’t show it, but Thule knew Josephine was as angry at Leliana for going behind everyone’s back to sneak Blackwall out as he was. It had seemed the perfect solution—leave him to the Orlesians, who had the first claim on him, let him pay for his crimes. Blackwall was happy, Celene was happy, Thule was happy. But apparently his spymaster had not been happy, so now the whole mess had come tumbling down around his head. And Josephine’s.

Even at that, everything would have been fine, but one of the scullery maids had gotten lost in the rooms below the keep and found Blackwall asleep there. She’d thought he was a ghost at first and run screaming, and then couldn’t find her way back, but eventually a search had commenced and Blackwall had been found. 

“What are you going to do?” Josephine asked.

“Wring Leliana’s neck,” he snapped.

“She won’t let you catch her,” his Ambassador responded practically.

“Then I’ll hide and jump out at her.”

Josephine raised her eyebrows and looked down at him, her expression making it clear that she thought it was past time for him to get over his snit and resolve the situation once and for all.

“Fine,” he sighed. “Fine. I’ll do it. Have him brought here and let’s get it over with.”

“As you say, Inquisitor.” 

She left the room and Thule followed, climbing the dais and taking his seat on the throne. He felt a little ridiculous up here, to tell the truth … and a little not ridiculous, either, which disturbed him.   
The last thing he wanted was to get used to being a person in power. Someday he would defeat Corypheus, and when that happened he would no doubt rapidly find his usefulness to Thedas at an end. It behooved him to remain prepared for that day.

When everything was ready, Josephine climbed the steps and approached him. In her formal voice, she said, “For judgment this day, Inquisitor, I must present Captain Thom Rainier, formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall.”

There were hisses around the room; Blackwall’s deception had not gone over well within the Inquisition. Thule was glad Harding was away from Skyhold at the moment; she had been upset enough when Blackwall left. Having him back, as Rainier, and held up for judgment would have been unnecessarily hard on her.

Rainier was brought forward, hands chained together, face pointed down at the floor. Thule had yet to see him look up since he had been found. That Rainier was well aware of his own shame was a point in his favor, but only a point.

“His crimes,” Josephine began … and then she stopped, shaking her head. “You are aware of his crimes.”

“I believe we all are, now,” Thule said,

“Now that he has been brought here, the decision of what to do with him is now formally yours.”

“Orlais doesn’t want him back?”

“Now that we have him, the Empress says we have her blessing to do with him as we see fit, given that he was one of your companions.”

The real truth was that Celene was outraged, and this was her polite way of sticking it to him that his organization had dared to interfere with Orlesian justice. He didn’t blame her a bit, and had sent a very carefully worded letter of apology her way. He was still waiting to hear if it had mollified her at all.

“Don’t think you’ve been saved,” Thule said now to Rainier. “Your life is mine now.”

“Whatever you paid, it wasn’t worth it.” Rainier kept his eyes on the floor, but his voice was loud enough to be heard in the back. “I was ready to be dealt with as harshly as the Empire deemed necessary; you might think of yourself as a man without scruples, but your justice will be far more generous than I deserve, whatever the sentence may be.” He took a deep breath. “There is more than enough evil in the world because of me. I accepted the punishment; I was ready for all this to end.”

“You don’t think that was taking the easy way out?”

“Do you think the years I’ve spent since then were easy? I lived with the guilt and the shame and the fear and the burden of being someone I wasn’t, of trying to be a better man than Thom Rainier had ever been, for years. If I was willing to part with my own sorry life in a final atonement, that is between the Maker and me and those I killed and those I betrayed, and it’s nothing whatever to do with you!” Rainier’s voice had been rising as he spoke, and now he lifted his head at last and looked Thule full in the eyes.

“On that, we are completely agreed,” Thule told him. “Which is why I am sending you where you have been meant to be all this time, where your skill with a blade is still needed—to join the Wardens. They can decide your fate.”

There was an easing of tension in Rainier’s shoulders at that. “As you command.”

“You know as well as I do the dangers inherent in becoming a Warden, and living as one.”

“I do. I accept those dangers. I welcome them. If I die, it will be no less than I deserve. If I live, I’ll make it count.”

“Very well.” Thule stood up. “That concludes our business for the day,” he said in a louder voice, for the benefit of the assembled company. 

They dispersed slowly, murmuring.

“Shall I make arrangements to have him sent north to Weisshaupt?” Josephine asked quietly.

“Yes. As soon as possible.”

“Very good, Inquisitor.” Making a notation on her clipboard, she headed for her office.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
As she often did, Leliana had her dinner delivered to the Rookery—today as much to avoid the Inquisitor’s unhappiness with her decision in regard to Rainier as because of all the work piled up on her desk.

It was hard to focus on the dispatches and the coded messages, or on the otherwise very tasty chicken and potatoes, while she was still thinking about the cold anger in Thule’s blue eyes when he had faced her down earlier. Leliana was used to acting on her own, with very little oversight, being trusted to know the right thing to do. In this situation, she still believed her choice had been the right thing—but she couldn’t deny that the Inquisitor ought to have been informed before she made the decision, and kept apprised of the steps she was taking. She had gone outside the scope of her work, undermining the Inquisitor’s authority, stepping on Josie’s toes, and infuriating Cullen, who had strong opinions about the responsibility an officer had to the men who served under him.

But she couldn’t regret what she had done. Didn’t everyone deserve the chance to atone? Rainier had stepped up and confessed to what he had done, he had surrendered himself to a higher authority. Who was to say that she wasn’t the authority the Maker had intended to deal with him all along? Why else had he been brought to her attention all that time ago, when he was still just an itinerant Warden hiding in the Hinterlands? Surely that made him her responsibility. Didn’t it?

Nathaniel paused at the top of the stairs, smiling at her. “You know you did the wrong thing, but you’re sure you did the right thing, and you can’t get the two to agree. Is that it?”

“Why are you always here?” she snapped at him, uncomfortable with his continued ability to articulate the turmoil inside her just when she was trying to quiet that turmoil and push it back into the darkness where she could ignore it.

“I have nowhere else to go.”

“That’s a sophistry. You could go anywhere. Weisshaupt, Amaranthine, the Free Marches … You could go to Seheron if you wanted, spend your days fighting Qunari.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Nathaniel shrugged, settling himself on the chair across from her desk and stealing the bread off her plate. “I don’t think I have anything against the Qunari. And I don’t particularly like the Tevinters.”

“Then you could go to Minrathous and use your famous stealth skills to begin assassinating the Magisterium.”

He tore off a piece of the bread and ate it slowly, his eyes on her as he considered the suggestion. “Is that what you want me to do?”

“Do I look as though I care what you do?”

There was no smile on his face, but there was one in his eyes as he tilted his head a little to regard her with amusement and a warmth that drew an answering warmth up from the pit of Leliana’s stomach. “You don’t look it, but I think you do.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But there was a breathiness to the words that belied her attempt at tartness.

“I’ve been accused of being many things in my life, but rarely ridiculous. Perhaps I should try it.” He was still eating her bread, still watching her with those dark eyes that seemed to see so far inside her, and Leliana shivered.

“I wish you would let me work.”

“But you weren’t working,” Nathaniel pointed out. “You were sitting here trying to justify your actions to yourself and making excuses for your coworkers’ anger. You have to own what you did, Leliana. You chose this, you had good reasons and emotional reasons that I think you’re afraid to deal with, because then you would have to admit that you have feelings, and needs, and desires that being Sister Nightingale isn’t fulfilling.”

She looked down at the page in front of her, not able to focus on what it said. “I have responsibilities. People’s lives depend on me. The Inquisition depends on me.”

“It depends on the others, too. But Josephine finds time for her fine clothes and expensive wines, and the Inquisitor finds time to write love poetry for Cassandra—very bad love poetry, incidentally—that he thinks no one knows about, and the Commander finds time to solace his soul in the Chantry and in the Undercroft. Alone amongst the Inquisition’s leaders, you try to live with nothing but work. Work and bleak memories of women who you loved who chose death over you.”

Her head snapped up at the last words. “How dare you!”

“Because I’ve been there. I wallowed in your darkness, Leliana, for a long time, and it led me …” He shuddered, turning his head away. “It led me to be vulnerable to Corypheus’s influence, and in that vulnerability to kill my own people, people I considered my brothers and sisters. What you are doing is dangerous, Leliana. Dangerous to you, and because of the position you hold, dangerous to others.”

“And you think you can do something about that?”

He shrugged, looking suddenly less sure of himself. “It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”

“I … I don’t know.” She pulled the page toward her again, resolutely turning her eyes to it. “Now, if there’s nothing else?”

Nathaniel unfolded himself from the chair, and even though she was _not_ looking, she noticed the grace of his movements. “You let me know what else there is, Nightingale.” And he was gone, the huskiness of his words hanging in the air and making her skin tingle.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Lilias had been trying to find a time to speak with Dorian about the communication from his family, but she felt awkward about it. None of this was her place. She barely knew Dorian; she knew nothing about Tevinter other than what she had heard from Fenris, and she didn’t think Dorian was exactly the type of Tevinter Fenris had been familiar with; and she had no standing within the Inquisition.

“ _Lethallan_ , you must stop hesitating,” Merrill said to her. They were sitting at a table in the Herald’s Rest while Lilias tried to get her courage up. Dorian was at the bar next to a burly Templar with dark skin and a bald head. Quite a looker, as well, Lilias noticed. He and Dorian weren’t speaking, but she could see their shoulders pressing together.

“I don’t want to interrupt.”

Merrill followed the line of her gaze. “They don’t want anyone to think there is anything to interrupt.”

“Exactly why I shouldn’t.”

“There was a time when you would have simply walked up and knocked their heads together.” Merrill’s green eyes rested on her gently and with sympathy—but also with a certain sense of disappointment, or so Lilias felt.

“Does anyone actually miss those days?”

“I do. And I think you do, too.”

She wasn’t wrong. Lilias had to acknowledge that. But these were different times, and this was a different place. She flagged down the serving girl and spoke to her briefly. In a few minutes, the expensive glass of wine she had bought Dorian was delivered to him, he spoke with the bartender in confusion, then turned around and frowned at her. She beckoned him over.

He approached, carrying the wine. “This is an excellent vintage, Champion, but I’m afraid you—“

“Please, call me Lilias, and I didn’t send you a drink for the reason you’re imagining.”

“Ah. Well, then, in that case, I’m intrigued.”

“Intrigued enough to join us?”

“Is this a clandestine meeting? I love clandestine meetings.”

He wasn’t going to love the one she was about to inform him of, Lilias was certain. She took a deep breath and leaned across the table as Dorian sat down. “I have something I need to speak to you about, and I really don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“Do tell.”

“Your parents have been sending letters to Mother Giselle.”

He froze, his entire body utterly still for a long second. It almost seemed as though he had ceased to breathe. His grey eyes lost their sparkle and dance and took on a flat hostility. “You know this how?”

“She told me.”

“You. She told you and not me, or the Inquisitor?”

Lilias nodded. “I don’t understand it, either.”

“And what is it that Magister Halward and his blushing bride want of their absent offspring?”

“According to Mother Giselle, they want to reconcile.”

Dorian snorted a laugh, but without humor. “That will be the day.”

“You don’t believe they care about you enough to want you back?” Merrill asked him. “I know what that’s like. It’s very sad.”

He glanced at her. “Sad is a word for it. Pathetic is another. They don’t care for me; only for what I represent to them.”

“Which is?”

“Security for the bloodline. They only want me back if I can provide them with heirs bearing the Pavus name and beauty—and magical talent.”

Merrill frowned. “That beautiful Templar isn’t going to give you children; they know that, right?”

He blinked, startled, then roared with laughter. Genuine, this time. “Not for lack of trying, I assure you.”

Merrill thought about that, then blushed furiously. Lilias grinned. There was still something so innocent about her friend—deceptively so. People underestimated Merrill at their own cost.

Dorian sobered, leaning forward, but the anger was gone now, replaced by a wistfulness and a sorrow. “They know that who I am cannot provide them with what they want. It’s why I left. It’s why I can’t imagine that what they want now is as simple as a reconciliation between loving parents and child.”

“Apparently they want you to meet with a ‘family retainer’ in Redcliffe, who will take you to meet your parents at an undisclosed location. Mother Giselle was encouraged not to tell you about it at all, just to trick you into going. It smelled very much like a trap to me.”

“And she approached you with this hare-brained scheme and you brought it to me? In that case, Lilias, I am in your debt. In another person’s hands this situation might have led to my waking up in chains in Qarinus, being forced to procreate against my will.”

“The Inquisitor would be furious if that happened.”

Dorian smiled. “Dear man, he would, wouldn’t he? No doubt that’s why he was left out of this.”

“Probably.”

“And why would they imagine I would travel with a member of the Chantry?” He shook his head. “This is incomprehensible to me. So naturally, my curiosity knows no bounds and I must go. Will you go with me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Well, if it all goes horribly awry, we may have to escape and kill everyone. It’s always good to have friends on hand in such a situation.” Dorian sighed heavily. “I cannot believe my father. Of course he couldn’t write to me directly—how much better to contact some southern cleric on the sly. Much wiser.” He looked across the table at Lilias. “This is the Tevinter way—never approach from the front. Always come in from the side, hoping the quarry is distracted.”

“You imagine that’s how your father thinks of you, as his quarry?”

“I don’t have to imagine it; I know it.” He smiled suddenly. “If this is some Venatori connivance, I will be utterly disappointed.”

“In their lack of imagination?”

“Precisely. Thank you for coming to me with this. I’m sure it would have been easier simply to go along with the plan to hoodwink me into going to Redcliffe blind to what awaited me, and yet you chose to be upfront.”

Lilias shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “I’ve been hiding in the shadows for too long. It’s time to come out and face the world—I thought I’d start with you.’

“And I’m glad you did. Now, we’ve all been serious for entirely too long. Allow me to buy you both glasses of this excellent wine and let’s talk about something truly important—men.”


	45. Tied to the Past

When Alistair heard of the proposed trip to Redcliffe, he insisted on going along, although neither Lilias nor Varric seemed particularly glad to have him accompany them. He missed Redcliffe—despite his years living in the stables, he had fond memories of his childhood and the relative simplicity of those days. And somehow he hoped to find himself there, his younger self, still sure of himself and who he was … as much as Alistair had ever been sure of those things.

On top of it all, he strongly disliked having his lands yet again used by the Tevinters without his knowledge or permission. Whatever awaited Dorian, Alistair wasn’t going to let anything happen to him on Fereldan soil that he didn’t wish to have happen—and the best way to ensure that was the company of the King of Ferelden himself.

The people fell back as they walked through the village, hushed by the presence of their king. Some of them might remember Leyden from the Blight, as well, Alistair imagined, and be struck by Lilias’s resemblance to her cousin. Although he could see the differences more now than ever—Lilias’s long, springing steps in contrast to Leyden’s more determined stride, for example. 

Lilias and Varric had kept up a lively conversation on the journey, drawing Dorian in as often as they could, and Alistair occasionally, mostly by accident. He could tell that Lilias was nervous about this journey, as the first official work she was doing on the Inquisition’s behalf. Dorian was naturally nervous about what awaited him in the inn. And Varric appeared nervous about being back in the Hinterlands, so near the entrance to the Deep Roads area where Bianca had betrayed him. 

So Alistair took the lead as they approached the inn. “Dorian, do you want us all to go in with you?”

The mage shrugged, nonplussed for the first time in Alistair’s admittedly brief acquaintance with him. “Perhaps not. Two’s company, four’s a crowd?”

Varric silently split off, finding a bench in the sun and taking out his ever-present polishing cloth. 

Lilias looked uncertain as well, shifting her weight back and forth. 

“I’ll take him in; they know me here,” Alistair told her.

She looked at him for a moment, then nodded decisively. “Yes. Good idea, thank you.”

He returned the nod. Turning to Dorian, he asked, “Are you ready?”

“No; but then, when has that ever mattered?” The mage reached for the door handle.

Inside, the inn was remarkably quiet. The barkeep looked up as they entered, eyes widening as he recognized Alistair, and apparently also Dorian. He came out from behind the bar. “Lord Pavus?”

“The same.” Dorian was trying for his usual breezy tone, but his nerves had his voice quavering noticeably.

“I’ll be right back.” He crossed his arm over his chest and bowed to Alistair. “Your Majesty.”

“As you were.”

“Yes, sire.” The barkeep disappeared up the stairs.

Shortly thereafter, a different man came back down the stairs. The barkeep had been big, beefy, and blond. This one was slender, and elegant, and dark-haired, and looked very much like the man at Alistair’s side.

“Dorian,” he said.

The mage’s dark skin paled. “Father.” And then he reddened, his tone snapping with anger. “What was the use of the red herring about the ‘family retainer’? Couldn’t you have just said you were coming yourself?”

“Would you have made an appearance here had you known it was I waiting for you? It was for that reason I asked that you not be told at all.”

“Yes, because it’s so much better to resort to subterfuge when you wish to speak with your son!”

Alistair remained by the door, quietly. Dorian’s father had yet to so much as glance in his direction, and he had no desire to interrupt the reunion unless it seemed necessary.

“I apologize for the deception. I could not think how else to draw you away.”

“Why could you not simply have come to Skyhold? Oh, yes, of course, because what would people think if you were seen with the dreaded Inquisitor?” Dorian rolled his eyes. “And now here you are with the equally dreaded ‘upstart King of Ferelden’.”

Both men glanced at Alistair at that. He returned the looks calmly, more than used to far worse epithets than that. They weren’t wrong, anyway. He was an upstart, and worse.

Dorian turned back to his father, his body tensed as if to spring. “So what is this exactly, Father? An ambush? A kidnapping? A warm family reunion?”

The elder Pavus sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. “This is how it has always been. Can we not have a simple conversation without all these … dramatics, Dorian?”

Alistair couldn’t believe it. Was all this just to scold the mage? Without thinking, he stepped forward. “You went through all this trouble to get Dorian here—can’t you just talk to him?” They looked at him with surprise, and he shrugged, feeling awkward. “I never spoke to my father. Personally, I wouldn’t waste that chance if I had it.”

Dorian cleared his throat. “Yes. Good point.” He looked at his father. “So, Father. Talk to me. Tell me how mystified you are by my anger.”

“There is no need to—“

“There is every need!” Dorian glanced at Alistair over his shoulder. “You understand what this is truly about, don’t you? I prefer the company of men. My father disapproves … to put it mildly.”

“That isn’t exactly news,” Alistair pointed out. Everyone in the keep knew about Dorian—and most of them knew about his dalliance with Ser Barris.

“And why should it be? Why should anyone care?” Dorian shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Do not pretend to be naïve, Dorian,” his father snapped. “After all the care that went into your breeding, are you truly so surprised that your mother and I found the end of the Pavus line distressing?”

“The end of the Pavus line, as you term it, has a name. An identity. As your son. A person—not a symbol or a commodity. Something you were all too willing to forget. And apparently are still happy to forget, since you felt the need to lure me here by deception rather than coming to me as a man and a father and asking me to meet with you.” 

There was pain in Dorian’s voice underneath the anger and the studied, careful manner of speech. 

“This is not the way I intended it.”

“No, you wanted me to be brought here knowing nothing at all!”

“You have a duty! An obligation!”

“Yes. To myself. Not to you, not to Tevinter. I will never be the perfect leader you want; you might as well give up on me entirely.”

Alistair hadn’t been exaggerating how much he wished for the opportunity to talk to his father—he had longed for that as long as he had been alive, it seemed. But for the first time he saw how terribly awry a conversation could go when neither person was interested in what the other one had to say. Dorian’s father wanted only to bring his son home; Dorian wanted only to air out his grievances. “You don’t have to do this, Dorian,” he said softly. “We can go back to Skyhold right now, if you prefer.”

Dorian nodded, his eyes still on his father. “I agree. There’s nothing to be gained here.”

His father stepped forward. “Dorian, please, if you’ll only listen—“

“No. Not after what you did.” He looked at Alistair over his shoulder again. “He taught me to hate blood magic. He called it ‘the resort of the weak mind’. His words exactly. But when his precious heir refused to spend his life in misery, pretending to be something he wasn’t, suddenly it was no longer abhorrent and instead was a tool to use to bend my mind to his will.”

“What?” Alistair couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The idea was nauseating.

“Yes. He tried to change me,” Dorian said. “To use blood magic to make me into … a ‘normal person’. Can you imagine?”

“No. I can’t,” Alistair said. He wanted to throw this Tevinter magister out of his country for good.

“I only wanted what was best for you!” Dorian’s father protested.

“For me,” Dorian scoffed. “For you. For your fucking legacy. That was all you wanted.”

“Dorian,” Alistair said quietly. “Do you want to leave?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Alistair pushed the door open, the sunlight streaming in, a reminder of the greater world outside this dusty inn, and Dorian went past him. Following the mage, he closed the door behind them, neither of them sparing so much as a look at the man who still stood on the stairs.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
They left Redcliffe as quickly as they had come. His Majesty stayed behind to make jokes for all his adoring subjects, which Varric didn’t mind at all. He supposed Alistair wasn’t so bad, really, but it was still hard to get past the way he had hurt Hawke, and the change that had occurred in her when the King left Kirkwall for Ferelden. Blondie’s insanity had merely been the icing on the cake.   
Although Varric had to be fair and admit that the cake’s layers were made up of the losses Hawke had suffered—her mother and her siblings and her father and her homeland—long before the King of Ferelden came into her life.

But he had made things worse, and he didn’t seem to know how to fix them, and that made Varric angry on Hawke’s behalf.

Hawke wasn’t paying attention to Alistair, though, which Varric was glad to see. Her focus was on Dorian, who marched along pretending he was fine and not fooling anyone.

In the middle of a wide field, Dorian stopped. “You might want to step back,” he said to them both without looking at them. Hastily they did so, and not a moment too soon, because Dorian proceeded to use all the magic at his fingertips to rip up the field and rain destruction down on it.

Only when he had drained himself and stood panting and sweaty in the middle of the mess he had made did Dorian turn to them, with a semblance of his usual cocky smile. “Do you think the Inquisition can be prevailed upon to make restitution to the farmer on my behalf?”

“If they can’t, I will,” Hawke assured him.

He nodded wearily. “Thank you. I … feel somewhat better.”

Alistair had filled them in on what went on inside the inn, and in that knowledge, Varric shook his head. “If someone tried to do that to me, I think I’d have to destroy more than a field.”

Dorian tried for another smile, but it wouldn’t quite come. “Deep down, he’s a good man, my father. He taught me that principle is important. He … he cares for me, in his way, but—he is a magister of Tevinter. As such, he won’t ever change. Not on this.”

“My mother was a noble of Kirkwall all her life,” Hawke said. “We had to live up to those standards even though we lived in a dirt-floored hut in the middle of nowhere.”

“Would she have changed you if she could?”

“In a heartbeat,” Hawke said. “Well … maybe not me, but my sister. She’d have taken away Bethany’s magic if there was any way to do it.”

“I can’t forgive him,” Dorian said softly. “I won’t.”

“No one’s asking you to, Sparkler.”

“He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me … acceptable. When I found out, I left.”

“Does that even work?” Varric asked. He was skeptical.

Dorian shrugged. “It might have. It might also have made me a drooling vegetable. Apparently my father thought that I, as I am, was of no more value than that, so he was willing to take the risk. Unsurprisingly, I was not.” He sighed. “Part of me has always hoped he didn’t really want to go through with it.”

“Do you think you’ll ever be able to talk, to try to see eye-to-eye?” Hawke asked. She looked unhappy—Varric knew the loss of her parents weighed heavily on her.

“Your optimism is charming.” Dorian mustered up a genuine-appearing smile for her. “Thank you for bringing me here. I feel better for having that behind me.”

“I think you’re very brave,” she said softly to him. “I wish I’d had the courage to strike out on my own. I could have saved myself—and others—a lot of pain.”

“You’re on your own now, aren’t you?” he asked her.

“I suppose I am.”

“It’s not easy to abandon tradition and walk your own path.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“If you ever need an arm to hold on to in case of stumbling, you have mine,” Dorian promised her.

“And you have mine.”

Varric watched the two of them, feeling an odd stab of jealousy. Between Bianca’s betrayal and his own guilt over Corypheus, he had clung to Hawke more than usual recently, feeling that at least they could make an attempt to recreate the old days, and seeing her forming an evident bond with someone else, creating a closeness with someone new when Varric still felt himself so very tied to the past, was a bitter pill to swallow.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
When they returned to Skyhold, Dorian stalked off in the direction of his quarters and Varric returned silently to his table piled with correspondence. Alistair hung about looking as though he wanted to talk, but Lilias wasn’t sure she wanted to talk to him, or if she did, what she would say, so she reported back to Thule instead.

The Inquisitor looked grave when she told him about Dorian’s argument with his father, and particularly when she explained about the attempted blood magic. 

“I’d have decked him,” Thule said flatly.

“I’m surprised he didn’t. I think he had really hoped for something better from this meeting, much as he denies it. It’s hard to give up on family entirely,” Lilias said sadly, thinking of her own, all irrevocably gone. She had other cousins, including Gamlen’s daughter Charade, who was in Llomerryn last she’d heard, but it wasn’t the same.

The Inquisitor looked at her with sympathy and curiosity, offering no opinion on the subject. Lilias realized she knew almost nothing about his background. 

“You don’t have a family?” she asked.

He grinned, that disarming grin he was so famous for. “I suppose that depends on your definition.”

Lilias was about to press him further, just to see if he would actually tell her, but his blue eyes were no longer on her, his attention caught by something behind her.

She could hear it now, too, Dorian’s raised voice and the answering tones of Mother Giselle. She turned to see them both coming toward her.

“If I wanted to play the fool, I could be rather more convincing, I assure you,” Dorian snapped.

Mother Giselle looked as angry as Lilias had ever seen her. “Your glib tongue does you no credit. You cannot continue to evade the subject.”

Dorian smiled, a particularly provoking smile. “You would be surprised at the credit my tongue gets me, Your Reverence.”

The Revered Mother was about to respond when she saw Lilias and Thule in front of her. The Inquisitor had his arms folded across his broad chest, his blue eyes flat as chips of stone. “Oh! I—“

Thule didn’t wait for her to finish. “This display is entirely unnecessary. Both of you, come with me.” He led them into the antechamber between the keep and the gardens, leaning against the door to make certain no one else came in, and gesturing for Lilias to do the same with the garden door. “Now, what is this about?”

“It seems the Revered Mother is concerned about my ‘undue influence’ on you, Inquisitor,” Dorian said.

Lilias could see hurt and resignation in the mage’s mobile face, and she didn’t blame him. Holding Dorian accountable for his entire country’s actions and beliefs was not what the Inquisition was about.

“It is a just concern,” Mother Giselle insisted. “Your Worship, you must know how this looks.”

“To have the representative of the Chantry at Skyhold and one of my personal companions squabbling like children in the middle of the keep? I know how that looks.”

“You might need to spell it out for him,” Dorian suggested.

“The … the rumors … His presence at your side …”

Lilias spoke up. “There are rumors about Dorian? What about the Iron Bull, or Blackwall, or Alistair, or Vivienne, or me, for that matter? All of us could use our position to influence the Inquisitor … or we could, if the Inquisitor was weak enough to be influenced by whoever happened to be standing next to him, which he isn’t.”

Thule smiled briefly in acknowledgement of the statement’s truth. 

“I am fully aware of the … colorful nature of the Inquisition’s makeup, but the Imperium …”

“Not everyone from the Imperium is the same,” Dorian interrupted.

“I am also aware of that, Lord Pavus.”

He rolled his eyes. “Kind of you to notice. Nonetheless, the opinion of the masses holds more sway with you than your own understanding?”

“It is based on centuries of evidence. What would you have me tell them?” Mother Giselle shook her head. “I do not know you, and neither do they. Thus these rumors will continue.”

“Will they?” Thule asked with some interest. “How do you know?” He raised a hand. “Never mind. I would rather not know. Nevertheless, there is no cause for concern.”

“You say that, Inquisitor, but … With all due respect, you underestimate the effect this man has on the people’s good opinion.”

“Do I? Do they know how he has helped the Inquisition? How he risked his life to come to us at Haven?”

Mother Giselle looked as though someone had just shoved a lemon in her mouth. “I … see. Pardon me for disturbing you, Inquisitor. I meant no disrespect, only to ask about this man’s intentions.”

“And they are nefarious, I assure you,” Dorian said.

Thule frowned at him. “Not now, Dorian.”

“Sorry.”

Ignoring the exchange, Mother Giselle continued, “If you feel he is without ulterior motive, then I humbly beg forgiveness.” She looked up at Dorian, adding, “Of you both.” 

She stopped in front of Lilias, who moved out of the way to let the Revered Mother proceed to the garden.

When she was gone, all three of them gave a sigh. 

“Don’t worry about it, Dorian,” Lilias said. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows. “She does, actually. There are rumors, and her concern is legitimate … if misplaced.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Thule said.

“It really doesn’t,” Lilias echoed.

“Listen to you. It’s good to be the Inquisitor … and the Champion.” Dorian chuckled. “Do the rumors not bother you?”

“Why should they? I’m a Carta dwarf running the Inquisition … there will always be rumors. If not about you, then about me or about someone else in the group I’ve gathered around me.”

Dorian looked genuinely relieved. “Good, then. I would hate to think I brought either of you any grief. I … Surprisingly enough, I’ve come to consider you both my friends.”

Thule nodded. “I’m glad you do.”

Lilias smiled. It had been a long time since she’d made a new friend.

“I have precious few to begin with, and most of them are lost to me now. I … wasn’t expecting to find this here.” He ducked his head, uncomfortable with his own open emotion. “You both have me at your side whenever and wherever I am needed, against anyone who opposes you.” He cleared his throat and bolted through the door Mother Giselle had gone through.

Thule and Lilias stood looking at one another. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. 

He frowned. “About what?”

“I don’t think I was very helpful.”

“You took Dorian to Redcliffe, saw him through a personal crisis, and brought him back. You stood up for him to the Chantry, and made him feel as though he had a friend here. How much more helpful did you want to be?” He smiled. “Look, you’ve done a very similar job to mine, and from what I’ve heard, kicked some serious ass at it.”

“Varric,” she said deprecatingly.

“Not just Varric. You have a great many admirers. I hope you’ll count me as one from now on … and I insist that you believe me when I say I’m glad to have you with me.” He bowed to her and left the antechamber for the main keep, leaving Lilias to sigh and slump against the door and be glad that all that was over, at least for the moment.


	46. To Woo a Princess

Cullen leaned back in his chair, stretching. It was the first time he had put the pen down in at least an hour. He would still be writing now, a dispatch half-finished in front of him, but his hand was beginning to cramp and the perfect copperplate handwriting that had been drilled into him was suffering as a consequence.

He was almost relieved when a knock came at the door, although he had been enjoying the momentary lull in what seemed to be a constant stream of people in and out of his office.

To his surprise, his visitor was the Iron Bull. He got to his seat, gesturing the Qunari to take seat, worrying as he did so whether the extra chair in his office would hold the giant man’s weight.

It did, just, and both of them held their breath for a moment until they were certain the Iron Bull wasn’t going to crash to the floor in a heap of splinters where a chair had been. Cullen resumed his own seat, nodding at his visitor.

“What brings you in here today?”

“I got a letter from my contacts in the Ben-Hassrath. Already verified it with Red, she said to bring it to you.”

“Red?” Cullen echoed.

“Ah, yeah, sorry. Leliana.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” She was the only red-headed female in the Inquisition leadership, after all. Cullen should have known. Sometimes his own rigid adherence to the formalities of command was a hindrance in Thule Cadash’s more relaxed Inquisition. “What exactly does this letter entail?”

The Iron Bull looked at him across the desk, his single steely grey eye unusually sober. “They’ve been reading my reports—all vetted by Red, so don’t worry—and they don’t like Corypheus or his Venatori. And they really don’t like red lyrium.”

“I’m glad we agree on that front,” Cullen offered.

“Yeah. Me, too. Of course, big Vint darkspawn, not really something my people would be likely to support.”

“No, I wouldn’t imagine so. Are they offering assistance?”

“They are. They want to work with the Inquisition—with the Inquisitor.”

Cullen stared at the other men, completely flummoxed. “The Qunari and the Inquisition, joining forces?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“That could be a powerful alliance.” Cullen was trying to grasp all the implications.

The Iron Bull nodded. “My people have never made a full-blown alliance with a foreign power before. This would be a big step.”

“You say you’ve discussed this with Leliana already? Have you approached Josephine or the Inquisitor?”

“Yes. Both of them are cautiously intrigued.”

“As am I,” Cullen agreed.

“So apparently there’s a massive red lyrium shipping operation running based on the Storm Coast. They want us to hit it together—talking about bringing in a dreadnought.”

“A Qunari dreadnought?” Cullen had heard of them, but had never seen one. Of course, as he understood it, few people who saw one lived to tell about it. He remembered Isabela in Kirkwall—she had outrun one once, and spent the next five years avoiding the Qunari in Kirkwall as best she could. “Do they want a full-on assault?”

“No. Just a picked crew to avoid tipping the smugglers. The Chargers, the Inquisitor’s team.”

“Then … why are you here? If you don’t need the army …”

The Iron Bull looked uncomfortable, and Cullen realized the answer.

“You’re worried about this being some kind of trap.”

“I wouldn’t be doing my job, on either side, if I didn’t try to get ahead of the problem.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“I … uh ...”

Cullen had never seen the Qunari at a loss for words. “You don’t seem entirely happy about this.”

The Iron Bull waved his hand vaguely in the air. “I’m good. I mean … I kind of got used to them being over there somewhere, and now here they are.”

“A bit too close for comfort?”

“Something like that. Look, I think they’re on the level, but I want some … protection, just in case.”

“You want some troops discreetly moved into the area?”

“I was thinking about the Blades of Hessarian.”

“By all means, I’ll have them on alert, and I’ll have some soldiers trickle into the area bit by bit, get you some backup without causing suspicion.” Cullen frowned thoughtfully at his visitor. “So you don’t want the Qunari to extend their reach to the entire world?”

The Iron Bull shifted in his chair and it creaked ominously beneath him. When it had settled, he said, “Look, the Qun answers a lot of questions. It’s a good life for a lot of people. But … A lot of folks here wouldn’t do so well under that kind of life. Not everyone would make a good Templar, either, I’d bet.”

Cullen thought of Thule. Of Sera. Of Dagna. He smiled. “Certainly not.”

“Would you go back if you could?”

Looking around his office, thinking of the freedom of this position, the feeling of truly doing something good in the world, Cullen shook his head. “No.”

“Do you regret the time you spent as a Templar?”

“No … not really. I … there were things I did, things I was part of, that I regret, but as for joining the Order in the first place, no. I spent a long time thinking harsh methods against mages kept people safe. I’m no longer certain that I believe the world is quite so black and white.”

The Iron Bull grinned. “We sew the lips of our mages shut and chain them. I thought that was the right thing—then I met the mages here. Can you imagine Vivienne, or Dorian, with their mouths sewn shut?”

“No, I can’t say that I can,” Cullen agreed.

The door behind the Iron Bull opened and the Inquisitor ducked his head in. “Oh, good. You’re here.”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“Can you keep everyone off the west battlements tonight?”

“Compromise the guard rotation?” Cullen asked in consternation.

“Not compromise—just … limit. Please?” Thule opened his blue eyes very wide.

“I … Certainly, Inquisitor.”

“Excellent. You have my thanks. Bull, you got any of those fancy candies you’re always raving about?”

“The chocolates? A few, but it’ll cost you.”

“I’ll cover your Wicked Grace losses for a month.”

The Iron Bull looked offended. “As if I’d lose at Wicked Grace.”

“Stop playing against Josephine if you want anyone to believe that.”

“Good point. Fine. I’ll have them delivered to your rooms.”

“Thanks. You’re the best.” And the Inquisitor was gone.

Cullen looked at the Iron Bull. “What was that all about?”

“If I don’t miss my guess—and I don’t—the Inquisitor is planning to woo a princess.”

“Oh.” Cullen smiled. He wished Thule luck. “What were we talking about?”

“You were going to tell me how you became a Templar.”

“Was I? It’s not much of a story. I used to spend my time hanging around the local Chantry, begging the Templars to teach me—they must eventually have felt that I showed promise, or at least a willingness to learn, because the Knight-Captain spoke to my parents about it.” He thought of that day with a sense of nostalgia. His parents seemed so old in his memory, but they hadn’t been that much older than he was now, and they had been so reluctant to let him go. “Eventually they agreed.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

“At thirteen, I was already a soldier.”

“I wouldn’t say I was a soldier until I was eighteen. I was trained and educated first, my superiors making sure I was ready.”

“All my training, pretty much from birth, was aimed at making me a good soldier.”

“And your family?”

“Didn’t have one; just a cohort of other kids my age, all being trained to do the work they were best suited for. Qunari have a regimented system.”

The side door opened, one of the scouts peeking in. “Commander? Dispatch from Sister Leliana.”

“Ah. Duty calls, I’m afraid,” he said to his Qunari visitor. “We’re agreed on the plan?”

“Yes.”

“And you feel comfortable with this decision?”

The Iron Bull got ponderously to his feet. “Yeah. It’s not like we’re converting. We’re just joining forces against Corypheus. On that front, I think we’re good.”

“In that case, I look forward to seeing how this goes.”

“Me, too.” The Iron Bull paused. “Nice talking with you, Cullen.”

“Thank you. Same here,” Cullen answered, realizing rather to his own surprise that he meant it. A conversation with a Qunari—that certainly would never have happened in the Templars. The Arishok would never so much as meet with him back in Kirkwall.

It was good to be part of the Inquisition, he thought, reaching out for the report the scout was holding.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana looked up from the papers at her desk as the ravens signaled the approach of a visitor. Her eyes widened with surprise as she recognized Vivienne. The mage looked around the Rookery with evident distaste, twitching the white skirts of her robes to keep them off the ground.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Lady Vivienne?” Leliana asked cordially. As if she didn’t know. As if Vivienne would give her a straight answer.

“I merely wanted to see your charming rookery, my dear.”

“And here it is. Are you interested in birds?”

“I’ve always been partial to falcons. Such efficiency.”

Leliana didn’t miss the implication in the mage having named a bird of prey. “Not particularly useful to anyone but themselves, on the other hand.”

“Ah, how true.” Vivienne favored her with one of her lovely smiles. “But a falcon can be trained to be of use, can it not?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“So you know. I am well aware of how much time you have spent amongst the nobility of Orlais—you can’t convince me you haven’t been hawking a time or two.”

“Perhaps.” Leliana felt it a point in her favor that she had pushed the mage to such bluntness. “You must have as well.”

“My dear, what need have I of a bird to do my bidding? I reach out my hand and I can grasp whatever I wish from afar. I have magic at my fingertips.”

“A dangerous thing to have, at times.”

“Only if uncontrolled.”

There was a challenge in this verbal fencing, but Leliana was busy and had a pile of dispatches to get through. “Have you seen everything you came for?”

“Where is your charming shadow, my dear?”

“You mean Nathaniel?” There was no point being coy about it; Vivienne knew perfectly well how much time Nathaniel spent up here.

“The very same. The two of you seem to enjoy one another’s company.”

“We have a number of old friends in common, and have lost most of them. It gives us much to talk about.”

“It would be a shame to lose your new friends on top of your old, would it not?”

“What do you mean?” Leliana asked before she thought, alarmed.

“Only that leaving friends behind becomes tiresome after a certain point in one’s life.” Unless Leliana completely missed her guess, there was a genuine sorrow in the mage’s voice. “One begins to think of making choices that allow one to retain friendships, rather than lose them.”

Ah. So that was it. Vivienne was here to suggest to Leliana that she shouldn’t reach for the position of Divine. In Vivienne’s favor? That was an amusing thought, but not one to take particularly seriously. After all, if for some reason Leliana chose not to take the nomination, there was always Cassandra.

Even as she thought it, the Inquisitor came to the top of the stairs, looking startled to see Vivienne there. “Leliana, I came to ask if the thing had arrived.”

Leliana lifted the paper-wrapped package. “It has indeed.”

Thule beamed, taking the package. It was book-shaped, Leliana noticed. The Inquisitor was an intelligent man, but she had never considered him a big reader.

He turned to Vivienne. “And you don’t mind my purloining a bottle of your Agreggio?”

“My dear, I insist you take it with my compliments.”

“You have my thanks,” he said hastily, and he was off down the stairs.

Leliana looked after him, frowning. Wine, a book … of poetry, perhaps? She was happy for her old friend, but if Cassandra was about to become the paramour of the Inquisitor, perhaps Vivienne’s machinations needed to be taken much more seriously.

As if reading her thoughts—which she probably was—Vivienne smiled. “I will leave you to your work, my dear.”

And she was gone, leaving Leliana looking after her in consternation. Could Vivienne truly become Divine? And did Leliana want the position enough to stop her?  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule paused outside the sparring ring, watching Cassandra. She moved with such grace, such decision and determination. Normally he enjoyed watching her, but today he was nervous and his hands were clammy and he could hardly concentrate. He had the candy and the wine and the poetry and the flowers, he had the secluded glade ready … but he didn’t have the girl.

It was as much as he could do to wait for her to finish. Interrupting her in the middle of her training would not be the right answer. So he waited, trying not to fidget openly, uncomfortably aware that half the keep knew what he was trying to do. At least most of them could be counted on not to mention it to Cassandra … or he hoped they could.

Finally she was done. She took her towel off the fence post and wiped the sweat off her face, coming toward him. “Inquisitor.”

Her ever-present formality was not making him feel more confident. He willed himself not to stammer over the words. “I … was wondering if you were available this evening.”

Her eyebrows flew up. “Available?”

“I … yes. There’s a grove just outside of Skyhold. Will you meet me there an hour before sunset?”

She swallowed, her features softening. “Are you certain this is a good idea?”

In the face of her uncertainty, his vanished. “I am. Trust me?”

Cassandra nodded, her eyes shining in a way he had never seen before. “I will be there.”

He walked away, his knees feeling weak. Now to finish setting things up and get himself ready. He glanced up, calculating the time. Entirely too many hours lay between him and tonight.

They crawled by at a snail’s pace, despite his attempts to keep himself busy, but at last it was time for him to duck out of Skyhold by the back gate that Leliana thought no one else knew about, and make his final preparations in the grove. Blanket, glasses, grapes … Maker’s blood, would she never arrive?

At last he heard her rustling through the trees. He picked up the book, opening it to the place he had marked previously.

When Cassandra came to the little clearing and saw the blanket spread on the ground, with the bottle of wine and the glasses and everything else, she stopped short with a little gasp of surprise.

Thule chose that moment to begin declaiming the poem. “On aching branch do blossoms grow, the wind a hallowed breath.”

She turned to look at him, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

He smiled, feeling better now that she was here, continuing, “It carries the scent of honeysuckle, sweet as the lover’s kiss.”

Cassandra reached out for him, giving his shoulder a shove as if she was trying to determine if he was real.

“It brings the promise of more tomorrows, of sighs and whispered bliss.” Finishing the poem, he turned and went down on one knee before her.

There was a suspicious sheen in Cassandra’s eyes, and her hand was covering her mouth. “You cannot be serious,” she said at last.

“I can, and I am. After all, you were serious—your list was very specific.” Thule gestured to the things all around them.

“And that’s the poem you chose?”

“Would you like me to read a different one?” He proffered the book in her direction. “At least you can be grateful I didn’t commission Varric to write one for the occasion.”

Cassandra looked alarmed, as though she thought it was possible he might have. “Perish the thought.” She took the book and began riffling through its pages. “ _Carmenum di Amatus_? I thought this was banned.”

“I’m the Inquisitor,” he reminded her.

“So you are.”

“Would you like some wine while you read?”

“I would.” Over the edge of the book, she watched him pour. “You went to a great deal of trouble. Thank you.”

“I would do much more than this for you,” he said softly, reaching up with the wine glass. 

Cassandra came down to him instead, sitting cross-legged on the blanket as she perused the book, taking the glass from him. “You say that.”

“I mean every word,” Thule assured her. He passed her a bunch of grapes and opened the box of the Iron Bull’s chocolates. Leaning back against a tree trunk, he watched her, deep in enjoyment of the delights he had gathered for her. “When I met you, I would never have imagined that beneath that taciturn shell beats such a romantic heart.”

“Which is as it should be. One does not wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve, after all. Nor is romance the sole province of dithering ladies in frilly dresses.”

“By no means,” he agreed. 

“It is passion,” Cassandra continued, her eyes starry and beautiful. “Being swept away by the pursuit of an ideal. What is not to like about that?”

“What happens if your ideal turns out to be nothing more than a man, as fallible as any other?” It was a question he had asked himself many times over in making the decision to put this evening together, to pursue the emotions and desires that had filled him so many times since he’d met her.

She looked at him, her customary honesty in her face. “I do not know. Perhaps that is why I have been content to live with nothing but the ideal for so long.”

“And you’re … willing to try now, take the risk of something less than your ideal?”

“Perhaps reality can also be ideal.” She shifted so that her legs were drawn to the side, her weight resting on one hand as she used the other to turn the pages. “These are beautiful. You must have spent a great deal of time looking.”

He had, in fact, recruited Dorian’s assistance, but the mage had certainly made it a time-consuming task. Unwilling to lie to her entirely, Thule merely smiled, watching as she moved again, this time with her legs underneath her and the book held up.

“You could come sit here,” he offered, opening his arms.

Cassandra looked startled and frightened, like a deer poised to leap, and then she relaxed. He could see that relaxing was a conscious decision, but he didn’t mind that—at least she was making the decision to be with him and not to run, which was a very good start.

She brought the book and the glass with her and leaned back, her head on his shoulder, her body resting against his.

“Better?” he whispered, letting his lips brush the shell of her ear. He was rewarded by a shock wave that traveled palpably through her body, transferring itself to his in the process.

“Much,” she said, somewhat breathlessly.

As she continued through the book, Thule stroked her side, lingering at ribcage on the upstroke and hipbone on the down, fingers caressing her skin through the thin material of the shirt she wore. Cassandra’s breathing was coming more heavily now, the pages turning more slowly, her body relaxing more into his.

“Have you found one you like?” he asked. Gently, he touched his lips to the edge of her jaw. She sighed and turned her head further in his direction.

“I … was always partial to this one.”

With some difficulty, Thule directed his eyes to the page, but he allowed his hands to continue roaming, over her stomach now and her abdomen, the muscles firm and taut beneath his touch.

Cassandra spoke the words softly, pausing as his caresses covered a wider area and her breath hitched in response. “His lips on mine speak words not voiced … a prayer. Which travels down my spine like—oh, like flames that shatter night.” She pressed her head back against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed as he worked her shirt slowly free of her pants and hesitantly slid his hand beneath the fabric to touch her bare skin. She gasped in pleasure, her hips moving restlessly as he caressed the smooth expanse of skin below her ribcage. 

He could feel himself hardening, and was sure she could feel it, too, the little grove warming with their body heat. 

“His eyes—“ Cassandra turned so that she could see his face. “His eyes reflect the heavens’ stars, the Maker’s light. My body opens, filled and blessed, my spirit there.” Her lips were parted, her own eyes shining, and Thule looked away with some difficulty, completing the poem for her.

“Not merely housed in flesh, but brought to life.” He brought his hand up to trace the line of her jaw. “Shall we read another?”

With a little cry, Cassandra turned all the way in his arms, kissing him fiercely.

Thule wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back, the touch of her mouth everything he had dreamed of and more. Her hands were busy at the buttons on his vest, and he worked her shirt further and further up her body until she sat up to take it off over her head. She unfastened her breastband at the same time, and Thule couldn’t help the groan that escaped him. Her breasts were magnificent—perfectly round and heavy and firm, her nipples beautifully responsive as his thumbs brushed over them. He tugged her back down so that he could take first one and then the other into his mouth, rolling his tongue around the firm peaks and reveling in the cries of pleasure that escaped her.

With his hands free, he fumbled with the fastenings of her pants, opening them and shoving them down her hips with her smallclothes, aching to touch her. Cassandra kicked the pants off the rest of the way. He was surprised she was so unconcerned to be naked here in the grove—he hadn’t imagined in his wildest dreams that things would move this fast—but he was hardly going to complain, not with Cassandra’s hands restlessly moving over his bare chest, pushing his shirt back off his shoulders, and his fingers dipping into the wet heat between her legs, finding the spot that made her go still in his arms as he traced circles in a slow, maddening rhythm.

“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t tease me.”

“Never,” he promised in a rough whisper. He was still leaning against the tree. Wriggling awkwardly out of his pants, he breathed a sigh of relief as his length sprang free of the fabric, hard and throbbing. Cassandra faced him, raising her hips above him, and he felt her begin to envelop him.

Gritting his teeth, he managed to hold her still.

“What is it?”

He met her eyes, needing her to know before this went any further. “I love you.”

Cassandra caught her breath, searching his face with something like fear. She must have found what she was looking for, because she relaxed. “Here, tonight, I believe you.” And then she slid down the rest of the way and words were beyond them both.

He took her head in his hands, kissing her as she undulated against him, sloppy kisses that were hard to maintain as their bodies moved with greater and greater urgency. At last she broke the kiss entirely, throwing her head back, her body trembling with the approach of her peak.

Thule could feel himself readying to follow her, and he strained to keep his eyes open, fighting the urge to surrender entirely to the pleasure so that he could watch her.

And then with a last hard thrust of her hips against him, she called his name, and the sound of it on her lips pushed him over the edge.

Cassandra fell forward with her forehead against his shoulder, panting. When she had gathered her strength again, she moved off of him and he took an extra blanket and a small towel from the basket he had brought. When they had cleaned themselves, he drew the blanket up over their cooling bodies and they lay together looking up at the stars, Cassandra’s head pillowed on his shoulder.

“I imagine,” she said dreamily, “that they will say one of two things about me: that I stood at the Inquisitor’s side, his protector and his lover—that it was meant to be … or they will say that I was led astray by the wiles of a dwarven madman.” She twisted her neck to look up at him with a wicked smile.

He poked her in the ribs. “This is your idea of pillow talk?”

“If you wanted sweetness and light, you picked the wrong woman.”

“Point taken.” Thule laughed, and kissed her temple. “Well, I don’t care what ‘they’ say. What do you believe? Am I a dwarven madman? Have I snared you in my wily web?”

“I believe you are part of the Maker’s plan. Beyond that, I believe only that you are capable of anything—and that frightens me.”

“You’re still not sure about me?” he asked, feeling disappointment stab him.

“I’ve feared you since the moment I laid eyes upon you. I have never known anything like it. But I am sure of it, nonetheless. Of it, and of you.” Cassandra rolled to her side, her hand on his chest. “I’ve been with only one other man in my life. A mage, with whom I adventured when I was still very young. He died at the Conclave. I will not let Corypheus win. I will not let him take you from me.”

“You can’t control what will happen, Cassandra.”

“Perhaps not, but that will not prevent me from trying.”

He couldn’t look away from her. In her determination, her openness, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “The way you say that, I believe it.”

“Good.” Her hand moved to his hair, fingers threading through it to hold his head still as she kissed him. And then she was moving atop him and the heat was rising and Corypheus was for the moment nothing but a fairytale in a forgotten book.


	47. Hissrad

The Storm Coast was rainy, again. Always, as far as Thule could tell. He didn’t mind a little rain, but it seemed nearly constant here. At least, not as bad as Crestwood had been, or the Fallow Mire, he reminded himself. It could always be worse. 

“Do you know where your contact is intending to meet us?” he asked the Iron Bull.

“Right here,” said a voice, and an armored elf stepped out from the screening of a stand of trees with low-hanging branches. “Good to see you again, Hissrad.”

Thule looked around, frowning, but the Iron Bull was grinning. “Gatt! How the Void are you? Last I heard, you were still in Seheron.”

“They finally decided I’d calmed down enough to go back out into the world.”

To Thule’s mind, the elf was plenty calm—he seemed practically icy. Maybe the Qunari had a different standard … not that you could tell it from the Iron Bull. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor,” Gatt added, looking as though it was anything but. “Hissrad’s reports say you’re doing good work.”

“That’s the second time you’ve used that name.” Thule looked up at his Qunari companion. “Is your real name Hissrad?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Under the Qun, we use titles, not names,” Gatt explained impatiently. 

“Yeah. Mine was ‘Hissrad’, because I was assigned to secret work. You can translate it as … ‘Keeper of Illusions’ or—“

Gatt cut him off. “It means ‘liar’,” he said flatly.

The Iron Bull didn’t like that. He looked hurt, and that wasn’t something Thule had ever seen in him before. “Well, you don’t have to say it like that.”

Gatt shrugged, clearly unconcerned by the Iron Bull’s hurt feelings. “You ready to get started?” he asked Thule. “This should help both our people. Tevinter is dangerous enough without the influence of this Venatori cult. If this new form of lyrium helps them seize power, the war with Qunandar could get much worse.”

The Iron Bull nodded. “With this stuff, the Vints could make their slaves into an army of magical freaks. Nobody wants that.”

“We could lose Seheron,” Gatt said.

“And then see a giant Tevinter army come marching back down here,” Thule finished.

Gatt nodded. “The Ben-Hassrath agree. It’s why we’re here.” He pointed out over the water. “The dreadnought is safely out of view, and out of range of any Venatori mages on shore. We’ll need to eliminate the Venatori, then signal the dreadnought so it can come out of hiding and deal with the smuggler ship. We’ll have to be careful to eliminate the Venatori completely before we call the dreadnought—a half-dozen mages attacking from the shore could do some serious damage, especially if they have cover.” He looked at Thule. “It’s good you came with such a small group, Inquisitor. The Venatori didn’t see you coming; they’re still in their camps. If they’d disappeared, there’s no telling when we would have tracked down their shipping operation again, much less had such a good chance to destroy it.”

Thule was glad that the Ben-Hassrath’s intelligence didn’t seem to extend to the men who had been trickling in to join the Blades of Hessarian, or to the presence of the Blades themselves as the Inquisition’s back-up. He had been suspicious of this deal from the start, both because the offer seemed so good and because it made the Iron Bull uncomfortable, and Gatt’s thinly veiled hostility wasn’t helping him feel at ease about it. He was grateful for Cullen and the men waiting back at the Blades’ stockade.

“You could always wait and attack the ship at sea.”

Gatt shook his head. The Iron Bull said, “Dreadnoughts are powerful, but slow. Any decent smuggling ship could outrun one easily. We need to catch them close to shore.”

Thule nodded. “You’re okay with this, Bull?”

The Qunari shrugged. “Dreadnought runs are tricky—lots of ways for crap to go wrong. If enemy numbers have been underestimated, we’re dead; if we can’t lock down the Vint mages, the ship is dead. It’s risky.” He looked at Gatt, who bristled visibly.

“Riskier than letting red lyrium into Minrathous?”

“Fine,” Thule said. “Let’s get this done.” He didn’t trust that something wasn’t going to mysteriously, ‘accidentally’, go wrong, but he hoped he had covered it if it did.

“There are two Venatori camps, placed to cover the cove.” Gatt pointed. “One up this hill, and the other on that knoll over there. We’ll need to split up and hit both at once.” Something in his eyes as he narrowed them and stared up at the Iron Bull bothered Thule. There was a challenge there, almost as if Gatt was daring the Qunari.

If Bull saw that, too, he wasn’t letting it show. With every appearance of ease, he said, “I’ll come with you, boss. Krem and the Chargers can take the knoll.” He looked over his shoulder. “Krem! Get your ass over here.”

Krem joined them, giving a sidelong look at Gatt that told Thule he didn’t trust the elf, either. “Yeah, Chief?”

“You and the Chargers will go over there, to that knoll.” The Iron Bull pointed. “And deal with the Venatori you find there. Once they’re down, send up your signal. That’ll let the dreadnought know it’s safe to come in.”

“Understood, Chief.”

“Now, remember, Krem, you're gonna want a volley to start, but don’t get suckered into fighting at range. They’ve got mages.”

“It’s all right. We’ve got a mage of our own.” Krem glanced over his shoulder with a grin. Thule was glad Dalish, the Chargers’ mage, wasn’t in earshot. Years of life as an apostate had made her over-hasty with her denial of her magic, even now when it wasn’t necessary. The Chargers, and the Inquisition, prized what she could do.

The Iron Bull continued as though Krem hadn’t spoken, saying urgently, “Get in close and take their enchanter down before he has a chance to command the battlefield.”

“He’ll be dead before he knows it. You’re a real mother hen, you know that, Chief?”

“Hey, Lieutenant, watch the lip,” the Iron Bull snapped, but without anger, since Krem was completely right. “Just … pay attention, all right? The Vints want this red lyrium shipment bad.”

“Yes, Mother.” Krem grinned.

The Iron Bull gave him a withering look. “Qunari don’t have mothers, remember?”

“Couldn’t tell it by the way you’re acting.” The smile faded from Krem’s face. “Look, Chief, we’ll be fine.”

The Iron Bull nodded, although Thule could tell he was still worrying. “All right, Chargers,” he called, loud enough to be heard by the little knot of them. “Horns up!”

They echoed him. “Horns up!”

Smiling, the Iron Bull turned to Thule. “Ready whenever you are, boss.”

“Good. Krem, Cassandra will go with you, if that’s all right.”

“All right? From what I’ve seen, Seeker Cassandra could take down the whole crew single-handedly.”

“I have no desire to attempt such a thing,” Cassandra said, but there was a hint of a smile at the compliment.

Thule reached for her hand, kissing the back of her glove. “Be safe.”

“Always.” But she didn’t pull her hand away, and her smile widened and deepened, making Thule’s heart turn over in his chest. She was so beautiful when she was about to go into a fight. She also knew all of Cullen’s plans, and could share those with Krem on the way to the knoll—well out of earshot of Gatt.

The elf rolled his eyes at the display in front of him, clearing his throat loudly.

“Chargers!” the Iron Bull called. “Hit ‘em hard and hit ‘em fast, and the drinks are on me when it’s over!” 

They laughed at that, and still laughing, headed down the hill, Cassandra walking with them.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Lilias went up the hill with the Inquisitor’s team. Vivienne was walking behind with the Inquisitor, who of necessity was a bit slower than the rest given the length of his legs.

Gatt and the Iron Bull were just ahead of her, and she watched them with interest. She remembered the elven converts to the Qun from Kirkwall, and wondered where Gatt had found the Qun.

The elf looked up at the Iron Bull, grinning a little. “You gave your Chargers the easier target.”

“You think?”

“Lower and farther from the ship? Much less likely to be heavily defended.”

Lilias had noticed that, too. The Iron Bull’s protectiveness of the Chargers was well-known—even Gatt seemed more amused than surprised.

“I guess we’ll do the heavy lifting then—just like old times,” the Iron Bull responded.

“Yes, just like them.” Gatt chuckled in a way that raised the hairs on the back of Lilias’s neck. There was something dreadfully wrong here, she thought.

At a trilled query from Vivienne, the Iron Bull dropped back. Like a trained puppy, Lilias thought with a smile. The Qunari’s half-respect, half-fear of the Orlesian mage was overdone, but it didn’t entirely seem like an act, either, and Vivienne certainly enjoyed the appearance of power over him.

That left Lilias walking with Gatt. He glanced at her. “The Champion of Kirkwall? I’ve heard of you.”

“Nothing good, I imagine, given what happened with the Qunari there.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Nothing good? Of the human woman who bested an Arishok in single combat?”

She shrugged uncomfortably, not liking to talk about it.

“You’ve earned the respect of the Qunari. You fought with honor, and you won. Few could have.” The respect was there in his voice, undeniably, but there was skepticism in his eyes as he looked her over, and she only just barely restrained a shudder at the touch of his cold green gaze on her skin.

“So you’ve known … is it Hissrad? You’ve known him a long time?” she asked.

“You mean, ‘the Iron Bull’?” he put a heavy sarcastic emphasis on the name. When Lilias didn’t respond, he went on, “I was a magister’s slave, long ago in Tevinter, and when the magister went to Seheron, he brought me along. For company.” The full meaning of the last word dripped from his tone.

Thinking of Fenris, and the stories he’d told her, Lilias wasn’t surprised. “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

Gatt ignored her comment, looking straight ahead, seeing it again in his mind’s eye. “Hissrad and his men attacked my master’s ship, and all his soldiers. Hissrad himself broke my chains and set me free.”

“And then you joined the Qun?”

“A giant of a man slaughtered the man who had hurt me and then treated me with the first kindness I had ever encountered—wouldn’t you?”

Lilias nodded. She probably would have. “I’ve never heard that story.”

“Really. One of the few things he hasn’t shared with the Inquisition. Sure, share the secret Ben-Hassrath reports, but keep that bit where you saved the elf boy to yourself.”

There was a sharpness in his tone that had Lilias glancing at him with dismay. “Is he in trouble for passing his reports on to the Inquisition?”

Gatt shrugged. “He’s been more forthcoming than we’d hoped, and the Ben-Hassrath aren’t pleased about it … but he was one of their best agents. He kept the streets clean in Seheron longer than anyone before him—or after. He fought until it nearly killed him. He’s earned some leeway.” He gave a small, humorless smile. “Besides, the Qunari hate to discard a tool that might still have some use left in it. That’s why I have a job.” He glanced over at Lilias. “You must find it strange to see an elf working for the Qun.”

“No; I saw many of them convert in Kirkwall, and I understood what they felt the Qun had to offer, even if it wouldn’t have been my choice.” She frowned. “It probably saved some of their lives, because they were gone when the Chantry exploded.”

“That’s one way to look at it.” She had half-expected Gatt to want to argue the benefits of the Qun, but he was plainly not interested in converts. One point in his favor, she supposed. Gatt lifted his head. “There. I was told to expect opposition ahead of the main camp—you see them?”

She did. Turning, she caught Thule’s eye and he nodded, and both of them disappeared into the grass. Thule was better at this than she was because he was shorter, but she was lighter and less substantial, so it evened out in the end.

They fought their way through two small forward camps of Venatori and a third larger one. When all the Venatori were down, and Vivienne was seeing to a burn on Lilias’s arm, the Iron Bull approached Gatt. “We’re clear. Let’s send up the signal.”

“Right.” Gatt knelt and lit the bonfire. 

“The Chargers already sent theirs up,” the Iron Bull said. “See them over there?”

Lilias squinted and could make out the figures of the Chargers on the far knoll, their bonfire flaming up brightly. Out on the water she saw the dreadnought approach, a sharp-edged craft that looked deadly … and was. They all saw the ease with which it took out the smuggler ship.

Then Gatt put a hand on the Iron Bull’s arm. “Hissrad! Look! Down there!”

They could all see what he was pointing at. A hitherto unmentioned group of Venatori, mostly mages by the look of them, crossing the beach in the direction of the knoll where the Chargers waited. He clearly expected the Iron Bull to be distressed, but the Qunari looked at the Inquisitor, raising an eyebrow, and Thule nodded.

On the knoll, another group of soldiers joined the Chargers, lining up with them, a formidable array. The Venatori, seeing them, turned away from the knoll and hurried on down the beach instead, to a more protected position, from which their mages began attacking the dreadnought.

Gatt was nearly speechless with anger. “You brought men in! I told you not to do that!”

“If we hadn’t, my Chargers would be dead,” the Iron Bull told him. “Did you really think I was that stupid? You practically dangled that knoll in front of my nose—you knew I would send them there. Of course I would protect them!”

“You’ve ruined everything! All these years, and you throw away all that you are. For what? For this? For them?”

The Iron Bull looked down at the elf, unmoved by Gatt’s rising rage. “The Chargers were my men. My team. Hand-picked, every one of them. If you thought I would let them die just to prove something to the Ben-Hassrath you don’t know me at all.”

Gatt hastily removed himself from in front of the Iron Bull and approached the dwarf instead. “There won’t be any alliance, not after this, Inquisitor,” he sneered.

“Would there ever have been?” Thule asked him calmly. “This seems more about reminding the Iron Bull who pulls his chains than about offering anything to the Inquisition. And after you set up one of my people with faulty intelligence, and then didn’t even know we had allies here on the Coast … I wouldn’t have trusted you anyway.”

Down below on the beach, the mages were attacking the dreadnought, which was trying to get away but wasn’t fast enough. After a few minutes, it exploded, the pieces of it scattering across the water. The Iron Bull shook his head. “That’s on you,” he said quietly to Gatt. Then he turned his back on his former companion, looking down at the Inquisitor. “Come on. Let’s get back to my boys.”

Gatt was nearly jumping up and down with rage. “I’ll tell them what you did!” he screamed at the Iron Bull. “You’ll be named Tal-Vashoth! Think of that! Mighty Hissrad, Tal-Vashoth. Half the Ben-Hassrath thought you’d turned on us already, and they were right! They were right!”

Lilias shivered. That much concentrated anger was bad for a person’s health.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen accepted the cup of ale handed to him by Krem, smiling. It had all gone nicely according to plan … up until the Venatori mages escaped and managed to take down the dreadnought before Cullen and the others could get to them. But his orders had been to cover the Inquisition’s people, and that he had done. They had gone after the mages and eliminated them, but only after it was too late for the dreadnought.

The Blades of Hessarian’s camp had a jolly atmosphere—the Blades enjoyed their ale, and had tapped a barrel as soon as they'd arrived back in camp. The Chargers knew how to put it away, as well, and by the time the Inquisitor and his team arrived, the two groups were in the middle of a friendly but serious rivalry regarding who could consume the most ale.

Cullen, still nursing his first cup, got up from the barrel he was sitting on and greeted the Inquisitor’s party at the gates. Thule’s eyes went immediately for Cassandra, visibly relaxing when he saw she was well. She gave him a smile that made Cullen look away, almost embarrassed to have seen it. When was the last time a woman had smiled like that at him? 

His first thought the past ten years would have been Leyden, but suddenly now he remembered seeing a similar look on Dagna’s face. Warmth filled him, a happiness at being the object of someone’s affection, before he firmly squashed it, reminding himself that he was no good for any woman, much less one as innocent and light of heart as Dagna.

“Inquisitor. I take it all did not go well?” He looked from the dwarf to the Qunari. The Iron Bull growled and pushed past him, with Vivienne hurrying after him.

Thule sighed. “As we imagined, it was a setup. And his contact reacted badly to the news that we had anticipated the trap. It was not Qunari of Bull to think for himself, apparently—they wanted him to prove his loyalty, and he did: to us.”

“That’s good news.”

“Yes, for us. But the Iron Bull has apparently been tossed out of the Qun, which he’s not taking well.”

Cullen nodded. He had felt similarly when he left the Templars—even if it had been his own choice, it was difficult to turn your back on what you were trained to do, and who you had always expected to be.

Several hours later, when few people in camp could still stand, an elf appeared at the gates. Cullen, being one of the few still sober, was on guard. He halted the elf.

“I’m here for Hissrad. The ‘Iron Bull’,” the elf sneered.

“His contact?”

“I was.”

Cullen had the nearest Blade go fetch the Iron Bull from the building he had taken refuge in with Vivienne. The Qunari looked surprisingly refreshed as he came toward the gate, and he greeted the elf calmly. “Gatt. You here to kill me?”

“No. The Ben-Hassrath have already lost one good man. They’d rather not lose two.”

Thule approached from the other direction, Cassandra at his side. 

Gatt drew himself up, speaking stiffly. “Inquisitor, it is my duty to inform you on behalf of the Qunari that there will be no alliance.”

Thule gave him a courtly bow. “I formally acknowledge the communication.”

“And you will not be receiving any more Ben-Hassrath reports from your Tal-Vashoth ally.”

The Iron Bull’s body shuddered at the phrase “Tal-Vashoth” as though it had struck him physically, but he didn’t speak. 

Gatt looked at him, clearly expecting a response. When he didn’t get one, he returned Thule’s bow. If it was possible to bow sarcastically, he did it. And then he was gone.

Thule turned to the Iron Bull. “I never meant to turn you against your people, Bull.”

“You didn’t. They did. They wanted me to make a choice; I made it. Let me have this one, boss.”

“Of course.”

“Bull,” Cullen said. “If—it isn’t the same, but turning my back on the Templars … it wasn’t easy. If you ever want to talk …” He stopped, not sure if he was insulting the Qunari by offering himself as an available ear.

“Thank you,” the Iron Bull said, with every appearance of sincerity. “I may take you up on that. But … later. For now … I need to spend some time not thinking.”

Vivienne appeared in the doorway of the building they had taken over, and as if he had heard her call the Iron Bull’s head turned in that direction. He nodded, and set off across the compound in her direction.

Thule watched him go. “I wonder ...”

Cullen raised his eyebrows, looking down at the dwarf. 

“No, you’re right. Best not to think about it. You all right here, Cullen?”

“Fine.”

Thule nodded and returned to Cassandra, leaving Cullen to watch the gate, looking out across the darkened forests of the Storm Coast, and trying not to think about it.


	48. Temptation

Cullen rearranged the chess pieces in the garden, setting up a familiar problem from his childhood. He couldn’t help but smile, thinking of Mia and how very much she had hated losing to him. That one match had set up quite a rivalry between them … until he had chosen to join the Templars, at least. He didn’t think Mia had ever truly forgiven him for removing himself from the other side of the chessboard.

Just as he moved the first piece, a shadow fell across the board, and he looked up in surprise to see Morrigan standing there, watching him, her arms folded.

“I—“ It was awkward when she did not speak. “Would you like to play?”

“Thank you.” She took the seat across from him, and Cullen tried to pretend he didn’t see her loose top swing away from her breasts as she leaned forward to make her move. Interestingly, she seemed either unaware of or uninterested in what was revealed beneath her clothes, her eyes on the board. He was used to women who tried to get his attention, and used to women who weren’t interested in his attention, but completely unused to a woman such as this, who put herself on display with such utter indifference to the reactions of those around her. He supposed it was admirable? Except that it was hard to imagine Morrigan doing anything truly admirable.

“Are you going to sit there lost in thought, Commander, or are you going to take my pawn?” she asked coolly.

He had been about to take her pawn, but thought better of it now, if she was expecting it. Surveying the board, he forecast probable moves and counters, and decided to take the pawn anyway. It seemed the best choice.

Morrigan smiled at the move, her own following swiftly. Not a woman who wanted to spend a lot of time considering, then. Cullen’s own style was unsurprisingly more deliberate, and she would simply have to wait for him.

“Do you intend to be with us in Skyhold for long?” he asked her, hoping her response would fill the time while he considered.

“Until Corypheus is defeated.” Her tone indicated he was a fool to have thought anything otherwise.

“Of course.” Blast it, couldn’t she have had more to say? Looking up, he could see she was amused by his irritation, and he deliberately calmed himself.

“It is the one admirable trait in you Templars, your attempt at control over your emotions. Of course, that control breaks rather quickly under the correct … provocation.” 

Cullen looked up, alarmed. Was she referencing the Tower? He didn’t want to think about the Tower.

“I apologize, Commander,” she said, with every appearance of sincerity. “I did not mean to bring up bad memories. I meant quite another type of provocation altogether.”

He nodded, accepting the apology, certain that she wasn’t trying to provoke him in the way she mentioned, either, and made his next move.

Morrigan countered almost immediately, her eyes on him rather than on the board. “The pieces move thus across your War Table, do they not, Commander? And no doubt in your orderly mind, as well, each change in troop position forecast as far ahead as you can plan.”

“Yes.” Little point in denying it; he was proud of his careful and deliberate use of his army. Men would die under his command—they had a right to know he had taken every consideration possible for their safety.

“What is your plan for the Arbor Wilds? Are we to attack Corypheus there?”

Cullen removed his hand from the board entirely, sitting back. “I prefer not to discuss such things outside the War Room.”

“As does the Inquisitor. He seems remarkably difficult to pin down even in the War Room.”

“Part of his charm.”

“So I am told. Corypheus will not wait forever, Commander.”

“We cannot attack someone we cannot find. Perhaps you should bring your inquiries to Leliana.”

Morrigan snorted. “As though Leliana would tell me the color of the grass.”

That being true, Cullen could only shrug, indicating there was nothing further he could do. “You seem very anxious about it.”

“Corypheus threatens us all, does he not?” But there was more to it than that. Cullen had been lied to by a great many mages in his career—this woman, for all her power and aloofness, was really no different. There was something in the Wilds she wanted very badly. 

He made a note to mention it to Leliana and the Inquisitor, and made a final move on the board. “Check-mate, I’m afraid.”

“So it is.” But she didn’t look at the board, and she seemed very amused, leading Cullen to wonder as he left the little pavilion exactly how many of his own upcoming moves she had forecast.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“You know this is a foolish thing to do,” Nathaniel pointed out in a very soft voice.

Leliana waved at him impatiently. “Just keep an eye out.” She was going through papers in the desk of Lady Vivienne, and finding nothing of any particular use to her.

“If she has magical wards, she’ll know you were in here.”

“If you keep talking, the entire keep will know I am in here.”

He grinned and shut up, letting her finish her task. Frowning, she studied a page of alchemical notes on … restoring lost youth? Typical Vivienne, vain as they came, she thought.

“Nothing?” Nathaniel asked.

“Nothing.”

“Then let’s go.”

They left Madame de Fer’s room, heading down the hallway together. At a sudden noise around the corner, Nathaniel pushed Leliana back against the wall and kissed her, covering her body with his.

After the initial surprise, Leliana couldn’t help noticing how warm he was, how wiry and strong his body was, how practiced his kisses. He was teasing at her lips with his, the very tip of his tongue tracing a path across her lower lip until she opened her mouth to him, sighing at the contact of their tongues. It was interesting, this duel, as he retreated and then parried her tongue and advanced again. For a moment she had the upper hand, then he did, and she found she didn’t entirely mind.

At last he pulled away, grinning at her. “I think they’re gone.”

“Who?” she asked, feeling dazed. Too dazed, really—the Spymaster of the Inquisition couldn’t afford to be so affected by a simple kiss.

“Whoever was coming.”

“We weren’t doing anything,” she snapped, her anger rising. “How dare you compromise my reputation that way?”

He chuckled. “You broke into the private quarters of one of the Inquisitor’s companions out of some paranoid certainty that she’s trying to place herself on the Sunburst Throne—as if a mage has a chance in the Void, even now—and I’m the one compromising your reputation? Maybe you should think about that … Nightingale.”

His thumb rubbed softly over her lip, his smile for once reaching all the way to his eyes, and then, before she could think better of the sensations that filled her again at his touch and bite the offending thumb, he was gone, whistling as he walked away. Whistling. 

What an infuriating man.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Varric frowned at the page in front of him. How long did it take a Qunari body to bleed out? Donnen Brennokovic needed to know … and Varric Tethras didn’t. He sighed in frustration—just when he was on a roll, the words flowing, he came to this question. And he couldn’t go on without having it answered.

He hauled himself out of the chair, arranging his papers carefully so no one could peek. Most people accepted him as a fixture in the main hall and the denizens of Skyhold made certain no one pried into his papers, but occasionally he saw someone go by craning their neck to look at what might be on the top page, and he liked to take temptation out of their way.

It should have been a quick trip up to the library and back, but as he opened the door he heard a familiar giggle, light and frothy and free, and he smiled. It was nice to hear Daisy laugh like that. Then he frowned, realizing that if he could hear her from here, the only person she could be laughing with was Chuckles, and Varric didn’t trust the elf enough to be comfortable with Daisy’s increasing affection for him.

He deliberately made his walk heavier so they would hear him coming, and came into Solas’s atrium to see them sitting together on the sofa. Merrill had her feet curled up under her, tucked back into the corner, and Chuckles seemed more relaxed than Varric had ever seen him, leaning against the back of the sofa with his arm stretched out on top of it. It wasn’t a lover-like pose, but something about Chuckles’ affect struck Varric as … masculine, which wasn’t a word he generally associated with the elf.

Daisy looked up at him, her green eyes shining. “Varric, you have to come hear this story. Solas was telling me about a village he dreamed in where—“

Chuckles sat forward. “I am certain Varric has better things to do with his time than listen to my stories.”

“I love a good story,” Varric said. “I thought all of yours were serious, though.”

“Occasionally I have found humor in my travels. It is all too rare.”

“There’s the Chuckles we all know and love. No doom and gloom today?”

The elf shrugged. “Corypheus remains a threat. The Inquisitor has taken from him his demon army and with it his dreams of conquering Orlais, which eliminates both military and political means to rebuild Tevinter as he wishes to do. The Elder One will need to demonstrate that no one in this world can stand against his magic. He will not be subtle.”

“He never has been,” Varric agreed. 

“Is the Inquisitor ready?” Daisy asked. The light had gone from her green eyes, and now there was a softness, a worry, that Varric remembered from Kirkwall days. He felt like a heel intruding on a moment that had driven her cares away … but he didn’t trust Chuckles, not with a heart as delicate and fragile and sweet as Daisy’s.

Chuckles shook his head doubtfully. “The Inquisitor is a remarkable man, but even he will have difficulty standing against an ancient magister and prevailing.”

“He’s done it before,” Varric reminded him.

“Yes.” A frown crossed the elf’s face, some inscrutable concern that he didn’t pass on. “I cling to that hope.”

There was a silence, none of them certain what to say. Varric saw Daisy’s hand reach out, hovering above Chuckles’ shoulder, and then she drew it back, looking troubled. Perversely, that made him feel better. If Daisy felt something off about her fellow elf, perhaps she was in less danger from him than Varric imagined.

“I’ll … I’ve got to go look something up,” he said, making his way on through the atrium, leaving them behind. But he couldn’t leave the disquiet behind, or the sense that there was more to Solas than he let on.


	49. Belief

Leliana leaned back in her chair, lifting her teacup and inhaling the scent of the delicate spices. “Josie, you find the best blends.”

“Actually, this was a gift. From … Antiva.”

Hearing the minute pause, Leliana raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Yes. From my mother.” The answer came too hastily, and Josephine knew it as well as Leliana did. “Fine, then, if you must know, it came from Ciel. Lord Otranto.”

“Ciel? You are on a first-name basis with your betrothed now?”

“He is not my betrothed! I mean, he is, but he is not.”

Leliana laughed. “Josie, you are making no sense at all. You are aware of that, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Josephine shook her head, putting her quill down and leaning forward across the desk. “Leli, his letters are—he is funny, and sweet, and intelligent, and he has plans, and …”

Putting the teacup down on the floor next to the chair, Leliana leaned forward in her turn, her elbows on her knees. “It has been a long time since I heard that flustered tone in your voice. It sounds good.”

“It feels terrible,” Josephine admitted frankly. 

“Why?”

“Because I have no time for such things. The Inquisition requires more than all my time, and my family’s business an equally large amount in its own right, and Corypheus is still out there … waiting for us. How can I take time out for my own … for myself, in the midst of all this?”

Without wanting to, Leliana remembered Nathaniel’s dark eyes. “Why shouldn’t you? What better time?”

Josephine’s eyes were dark, as well, and they knew her equally as well as Nathaniel seemed to. She looked speculatively at Leliana. “Something you wish to share, my old friend?”

“Nothing.” But she had spoken too hastily, and she knew it.

“Sauce for the goose, Nightingale. If there is no better time for me, then shouldn’t that equally apply to you?”

Leliana shook her head. “Because I live with—in—darkness. Because I must continue to do so or I will be unable to perform the functions the Inquisition requires of me.”

“You cannot lose yourself, your soul, in the service of this Inquisition.”

“Have I not done so already? I … thought I had the blessing of the Maker. He told me to go with Leyden—the Wardens—but … then everything went wrong, and I—lost him. I lost the Maker’s trust.” She could hardly bear to look at Josephine, afraid that she would see condemnation, or, worse, disbelief, in her dearest friend’s eyes.

“Has it ever occurred to you that the Maker stopped speaking to you because he no longer needed to?”

“You think what I do is the Maker’s work?”

Josephine looked at her with kindness and sympathy. “You want to believe that the Maker is all love and beauty, and it is such an amazing thing in you that you have retained such innocence and purity among all you’ve seen, but surely the Maker has need for a Left Hand just as the Divine did—a Spymaster, just as the Inquisition does. Surely he saw the strength in you that allows you to be what you must and still have the belief in love that would allow you to counsel a friend to leave her heart open even when the timing seems wrong. Have some faith in yourself, Leliana, and in the Maker.”

Leliana sank back into her seat, stunned. She had never considered things the way Josephine was suggesting. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that her friend was so clear-eyed and thoughtful—what was a surprise was that Josephine had so incisively cut through Leliana’s own illusions, illusions she hadn’t even known she had.

“So the question is, what will you do?”

Collecting herself with some difficulty, Leliana smiled. “What will _you_ do?”

Josephine laughed. “Go back to work, for the moment. As you will, no doubt. What we do tomorrow … is tomorrow’s question, isn’t it?”

“So practical, Josie, as always.”  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Blackwall looked up from his workbench, and then down again as he recognized the person who had interrupted him. “You shouldn’t be here. There’s nothing for you here.” He didn’t want to be blunt; he didn’t want to hurt her. But he knew no other way to convince her to go and get her to listen.

“That isn’t true.” Lace Harding came closer to him. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

“Because you know what I’ve done, who I am. You should despise me.” Quick tears sprang to his eyes and he closed them, trying to keep her from seeing. “Why don’t you despise me?”

“Blackwall.” She laid a hand on his sleeve.

He shook it off. “Thom Rainier,” he said harshly. “Don’t romanticize me. Blackwall is dead; he has been these ten years. The man you think you know is nothing but a lie, told by a coward, to avoid his due punishment.”

“That’s the lie,” Harding snapped, her green eyes bright with anger, and something else he dare not name. “You are a good man. You did something wrong once, yes. Who hasn’t? And you lied about it. But you knew you shouldn’t, even as you were doing it, and you tried your best to atone by becoming someone you admired. You didn’t hide under the shield of Blackwall’s name to continue harming people—you used his status to help others.”

With all his heart, Blackwall wished that he could see himself, just once, the way she did. But he couldn’t, and there was no use in trying. “You need to go.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

“The Inquisitor will send you away.”

She nodded. “He might, but I’ll come back.”

“And if I’m gone when you do?”

Harding smiled. “I’m a scout. I’m a good one. I can track a sheep across a rocky field, I can pick the one I want from the herd, even though they all look alike to most people. I’ll find you.”

He whirled on her, driven nearly to distraction by her goodness. “Why? Why must you torment me so with promises of things I can’t have? If you weren’t a dwarf, I’d swear you were a demon!”

For the first time her gaze faltered. She looked down at her boots, taking a deep breath. Then she looked back up at him, and her eyes were as steady and as kind and as … warm as ever. “I care about you, Blackwall. Thom Rainier. This man, here.” She lifted her little hand, which could draw a bow and shoot an arrow with such power and skill, and touched him where her arrow had struck, and struck deep, a long time ago. “I care about him, and I won’t let him destroy himself, not if I have anything to say about it.” Harding took another deep breath, as if she were bracing herself, and went on, “And I think I do have something to say about it, because I think he cares for me, too, and that’s why he’s so Void-bent on shoving me away.” She took a step toward him. “I won’t be protected. I won’t be pushed away ‘for my own good’. I won’t let you hide from me. If you want to go, far away where no one has ever heard of you, in either guise, then I will go with you … once Corypheus has been dealt with. But I am not leaving you to curl up in a hole and wait to die. Not even if you ask me to.”

They stood there looking at one another for a long time, both of them breathing hard as if they had just run a long way. In Blackwall’s case, it was in the effort not to run. Just standing here before her, standing like a man who deserved the name, was some of the hardest work he had ever done. But he believed that she would follow him, and he blessed her for it even as he despaired of ever being worthy of such devotion.

At last she stepped, back, still holding his gaze steadily with her own. “Think about what I’ve said. I’m going to Emprise du Lion tomorrow, but I’ll be back. And if you’re not here … I will find you. I don’t care how long it takes.”  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
For once, Varric had awakened brimming with ideas. Not only had he figured out exactly how Donnen Brennocovic was going to get out of his current mess, he also knew just how the Guard Captain in _Swords & Shields_ was going to spurn the romantic advances of the handsome Templar. This time, anyway. He was going to have to get them together eventually, if only to satisfy the Seeker.

His fingers were already itching for the quill when he made his way to his table … and then he saw the rune, and it all flew straight out of his head. Instead, he saw the bright eyes that had captivated him from the start, the pretty face with the calculating, no-nonsense mind behind it, the body—well, fine as it was, that had always been secondary, hadn’t it? 

He sank into his chair, closing his eyes. Bianca wasn’t going to give up, apparently, no matter how much he wanted her to. All he wanted from her was the distance she was so very good at, for her to take a step back and leave him be long enough that he could forget what she had done, forget that in her pursuit of knowledge she had taken what he had confided in her and opened the door for … some of the worst things he had ever seen.

He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. Instead of peace, she was pestering him. Once upon a time, he would have been delighted to be pestered. But not now. Not now when he didn’t know what to say to her, or how to say it, or if he would be able to say what needed to be said in her presence. She had taken his trust and twisted it, and in so doing had made him responsible for everything Corypheus had done—more responsible than he had been to begin with, which was saying something. 

If only he had never told her. If only he and Hawke had never set foot inside that fortress in the Vimmarks. If only she had let Fenris kill Larius. If only he had never talked Bartrand into that Deep Roads expedition … or talked Hawke into helping. Or … well, really, how far back did he have to go before he erased everything he had done? If the world was a nightmare, he had been the one to imagine it.

Picking up the pile of papers in front of him, weeks worth of writing, stupid stories that didn’t do one single thing to make up for all the ill he had brought into the world, he threw them in a bundle into the fire, and he threw Bianca’s rune in on top of them all, and then he went in search of something that would help him forget, at least for a little while, that every single bad thing that had happened since the Blight was entirely the fault of V. Tethras, Esquire.

He’d be drinking a long time.


	50. The Storm

She must have been out of her mind, Lilias thought, urging her horse on despite its reluctance. Of all things, she had agreed that her first set of tasks on the Inquisition’s behalf would be to take back Emprise du Lion’s quarries from the Red Templars. She had asked Thule if he really didn’t have an easier task, and he had only grinned his wide grin, clapped her on the back, and wished her luck.

Solas had volunteered to go along, so Merrill had come as well, the two of them chattering away, neither of them looking cold at all. Sera had been going to join them, but she had backed out when Solas was added to the roster, and then Varric had insisted on coming. Any thought Lilias had entertained of Varric lightening the journey was banished by the dour glare he’d worn since they'd left Skyhold. Since Varric liked neither riding nor cold, Lilias was hoping his mood would improve along the way—but something told her there was more here than her dear friend missing his creature comforts.

And as if two lovey-dovey elves and a very cranky dwarf weren’t enough to contend with … Alistair had invited himself along. So she’d had his incessant merry whistling in her ear all the way from Skyhold, when he wasn’t cheerily trying to talk to one of them. Merrill and Solas listened politely and ignored him, but Varric was actively hostile, and Lilias didn’t know why Alistair was here, so she had no idea what to say to him.

Altogether, by the time they rode into the Inquisition camp and met up with the redoubtable Scout Harding, who could probably survive the end of the world and still be cheerful, Lilias thought, the Champion of Kirkwall was feeling all her newfound confidence slowly ebbing away into the bone-chilling cold.

“Well, at least fighting will warm us up,” Alistair observed. He was wearing a thick warm cloak with fur around the collar.

Lilias, whose cloak was rather threadbare since it was all she’d had since she fled Kirkwall, glared at him, before turning her attention back to Harding. “What in Thedas happened here? I mean, it’s only Kingsway—why is everything frozen?”

Harding shook her head. “Something to do with the Red Templars. No one knows for sure just what they did.” She gestured at the silent, mostly empty town behind her. “That’s what’s left of Sahrnia after the sudden freeze. The lucky ones got out before the river froze. The rest have been penned in here for over a month. Surrounded by Red Templars, they’ve had nowhere to go. We’re the first friendly faces they’ve seen in a long while.”

“We should send a raven back to Skyhold requesting more supplies,” Varric said, looking somberly at the few residents out and about. They looked thin, and cold.

“I’ve already done so, Master Tethras,” Harding told him. “Sahrnia relies on the river for everything; this has been devastating for them.”

Lilias looked over the dwarf’s shoulder. How was she supposed to fix this? She couldn’t change the weather!

Next to her, Alistair spoke up. “This is hardly a strategic gem. Do you know why the Red Templars are here?”

Harding shook her head. “Our scouts haven’t been able to get through; the Red Templars have outposts all through the hills. I think this is going to require a frontal assault.”

Well, that, at least, Lilias thought she could manage.

“At my best guess,” Harding continued, “it’s to do with the local stone quarry. Mistress Poulin, down in town, apparently sold it to the Templars. She regrets it now, but now it’s too late. She’s stayed to feed and clothe and help as many as she could … but the damage is done. A number of men have disappeared, presumably being forced to help in the quarries.”

Lilias and Varric exchanged worried looks. Prolonged exposure to Red Templars couldn’t be good for the townspeople. That would have to be their priority—clean out the quarry and rescue the workers.

“No time like the present,” Lilias said. She turned to Merrill and Solas. “You ready?”

“Of course, Hawke.”

Solas nodded. “Yes. Right behind you.”  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
It was damned cold. Varric stomped on the ground, trying to return the circulation to his toes. At least Sparkler wasn’t with them—the Tevinter mage would be complaining up a storm. Using pretty words to do it, but complaining, to be sure. Daisy didn’t complain, even though the cold must be murder on her lightly shod feet. Chuckles was too busy being all elfy for a starry-eyed Daisy, Hawke was too worried about getting everything wrong, and His Kingliness too occupied in mooning over Hawke.

So at least none of them would be grousing their way across the tundra. That was something, Varric thought. He stomped his feet again.

The quarry was more like a labyrinth. Just trying to get down into it was proving remarkably complicated, and there were altogether too many Red Templars in the way. Fighting through them meant drawing Bianca, which meant thinking about Bianca, which meant getting angry, which made shooting Red Templars even more satisfying than it already was.

They had liberated quite a few workers, sending them scurrying back to Sahrnia as fast as they could go. Varric was pleased at that, and he could tell Hawke was beginning to settle into the work. This was the shit they had done together for nearly a decade in Kirkwall—fight the bad guys, help the victims. This was the kind of thing that had made her the Champion of Kirkwall.

At last they made it to the bottom of the quarry, clearing out the last of the Red Templars. Varric was bleeding from a pretty nasty cut to the shoulder. Daisy bandaged it and Chuckles made a feeble attempt to heal it with magic, but both of them were exhausted. The fights had taken a lot out of them. Rolling the shoulder experimentally, Varric hoped there wasn’t a lot of fighting left. The wound was going to play merry havoc with his aim.

“I think if we go back up this way, it’s a short cut,” Hawke said, squinting at the path in front of her. “Isn’t this the way the workers went?”

“I think so,” Chuckles agreed.

“Well, we should hurry,” His Majesty said, looking up at the sky. It had clouded over, and flakes of snow were beginning to fall lightly around them.

They hiked their way up from the quarry as fast as they could, but the rocks and the paths and the falling snow made it hard to get their bearings.

At last, they came out through a passageway built into the rock, and Daisy, who was up ahead, called out, “I see the road to Sahrnia! Not much farther now.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth when a snarl split the air and a giant shaggy grey bear was amongst them. A swipe of his paw was about to send Daisy flying when His Majesty the King of Ferelden jumped in front of her, taking the blow himself, knocked to the side by the force of it. Varric had Bianca out already, the motion as natural as breathing, and he and Hawke and Chuckles went to work on the bear while Daisy scrambled toward the king to make sure he was still breathing.

At last the bear was down—but the king still was, too. Lilias went on her knees next to Daisy.

“I’m no healer,” Daisy said, “but I think he’s all right. Just dazed.”

Chuckles looked the king over himself and nodded in agreement with Daisy’s assessment. “He can’t make it back to Sahrnia like this. Not in this weather.”

“You all go, then,” Hawke said. “While you still can, before you’re snowed in. I’ll stay here with Alistair—there’s the remains of a camp back there among the rocks, I saw it, fairly protected—and you go on ahead and tell them where we are.”

There was a chorus of argument, and Hawke stared them all down. “Merrill, you’ll freeze to death if you stay; Varric, that wound’s got to be taken care of; Solas, I want you with Varric and Merrill. End of discussion. Now, help me move him and then get going before the snow gets heavier.”

Between them, they got Alistair on his feet, half-dragging and half-carrying him back to the protected little circle of rocks Hawke had seen. There were indeed the remnants of someone’s camp—a bedroll and a stack of firewood and a kettle on a tripod—and Hawke nodded in satisfaction. “I’ll get a fire going and melt some snow and we’ll be fine until you can come back with help.”

Seeing that she would not be moved, they gave her the provisions from their packs and reluctantly left her there, hurrying through the snow in the direction of the town. They made it just as the storm truly closed in.

Harding was all for going right out to look for Hawke and the king, but one of her men, an Avvar from the mountains, shook his head. “It’s a short storm. You can tell by the color of the clouds. They’ll be all right—long as no one’s fool enough to try to get to them in the height of the storm.” He frowned down at the dwarf, who tapped her foot in annoyance.

“Fine. We’ll stay. But you let me know as soon as you see a let-up in the storm. I’m not losing the King of Ferelden, or the Champion of Kirkwall, on my watch, do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Getting the makeshift camp set up didn’t take very long, and Alistair was beginning to stir by the time Lilias had a fire going and some water boiling. They had a very small amount of tea leaves in their provisions—Merrill never traveled without some—and she put them in to steep. A hot beverage would be very good right now.

“What—Where—How—?” Alistair groaned and sat up, putting a hand to his head. “I feel like a bear sat on me.”

“Close enough.” Lilias ladled some tea into a tin cup and handed it to him. “Sip that slowly. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Will it?” He sniffed at it suspiciously. “What is it?”

“Tea.”

“Yep. That’s what it smells like.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I don’t like tea.”

Lilias frowned. “We’re stranded in a cave in the middle of a snowstorm. Tea’s what you get.”

“How did that happen?”

“You got sat on by a bear.”

“And the others?”

“I sent them back to Sahrnia so someone would know where we were. They’ll come for us when the storm is over.”

Alistair shook his head. “We can go. I’m fine.” He started to get to his feet, and Lilias put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“You are not fine, and the storm is fully on us now.” Fereldan natives both, used to cold and bad weather, they stopped to listen to the storm. “It doesn’t sound too bad. I’m sure they’ll come for us soon.” She put a very impersonal and clinical hand on his head. “You might want to get some sleep.”

“Probably shouldn’t, not if I got knocked out.”

“Good point.” Lilias ladled herself out some tea and hunkered down next to him. “So whatever will we talk about?”

“The weather?”

“Sure. Lots of snow out there. Cold, too.”

“Very cold,” Alistair agreed. “Snowy.”

“Right.”

They looked at one another.

“Well, that does it for the weather, then,” Alistair said. “Lilias, I—“

“Don’t.”

“Really? Not even now? You won’t let me explain, or apologize, or sob on your shoulder?”

“You’ve done plenty of sobbing in the last ten years.”

“You’re right. I have. I’ve … it’s been an eventful few months, this time with the Inquisition, and I’ve found out a lot of things about myself, and about your cousin, that … weren’t very pleasant. It’s been hard to come to terms with it, and I still don’t know … I don’t know who I am. Or what to do with myself. I’m King of Ferelden, but I’m crap at it. Really. I let Teagan do most of the work, and he hates it. He’s changed so much. He used to be so … suave, and good-humored, and now he’s just cranky all the time, and he hates everyone, and I think I did that, making him do all my work for me.”

Lilias watched him, wishing she had something to say that could help.

Alistair sighed. He took a long swallow of the tea, grimacing as it went down. “I should step down, but then, who do I appoint in my place? Who’s better for the country than I am? I mean, besides anyone, but … really, they wanted a Theirin on the throne. They’ve got one. The country’s more or less happy. Well, they’re not, but they are. Does that make any sense?”

“Surprisingly, it almost does. Which makes me wonder which of us had the head injury,” Lilias said dryly.

Chuckling, Alistair shook his head. “I’m grateful that the Inquisitor doesn’t seem to mind having the King of Ferelden as an extended guest. It’s giving me time to think that I desperately need.”

“He’s a generous man,” Lilias agreed. “Look at what he’s let me do.”

“Let you?” Alistair raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you realize what a gift you are to him? Someone as competent as he is who can take some of the work off his hands? Let you?” he repeated, shaking his head. “He should get down on his knees and thank you.”

“No.” Lilias dropped her eyes, unable to meet Alistair’s gaze, not wanting to see the pride and admiration in it—or wanting to see them too much. “No, I’m a liability.”

Suddenly he was kneeling in front of her, lifting her chin with a gentle hand to force her to look at him. “You are not. What Anders did wasn’t your fault. I met Anders, you know. He was unstable to begin with, and Justice … well, he was a bad idea from the start, and I told Caron that. You held the city of Kirkwall together against the Qunari, despite Chantry interference, without a Viscount to help you. No one blames you that you couldn’t be everywhere at once.”

“Everyone blames me! I—Elthina, and the Revered Mothers, everyone in the Chantry, they—it was my fault, Alistair. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t help him, even when I saw him descending into madness.”

“The only way you could have stopped him was to kill him, and killing isn’t done lightly.” His face was close to hers now, his eyes holding hers. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t fail. You carried an entire city on your shoulders for far longer than anyone could have asked you to do, and in the face of crushing tragedies of your own. I … You are an amazing woman, Lilias Hawke. You—I wish I had seen how amazing more clearly, much, much sooner.” His voice had dropped huskily, and suddenly Lilias was very aware of how close together they were, of how alone they were in the midst of this storm, and of how much she wanted to kiss him.

But the question, the name she least wanted to mention, tumbled from her mouth without her having decided to utter it. “What about Leyden?”

“She’s a dream. A figment. Someone I made up.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“No. But—I’ve come to understand recently that in many ways she played a part for me, as she did for many people. She was who I thought I wanted her to be, and in the process did a disservice to herself, and to me. And I let her. I welcomed it.”

Maybe it was the storm. Maybe it was his words. Maybe it was his eyes on her, his fingers still on her chin, the warmth of his body, the many nights she had dreamed of him—but Lilias was tired of pushing her desires aside. Leaning up, she kissed him, slowly, pressing him to open his mouth, and when he did she rose to her knees, winding her arms around his neck, and kissed him harder.

He growled low in his throat, and his arms went around her in their turn, pulling her close against him as he took over the kiss. And then it didn’t matter who was in the lead. They were kissing each other, reveling in the taste and feel of each other, and they never wanted to stop.

Without taking her mouth from his, Lilias attacked the buckles on the sides of his armor, leaning back long enough to help him lift the heavy breastplate off and to strip off the layers he wore beneath it. When his torso was bared to her, she pressed her mouth against the sculpted lines of his muscular stomach, licking and kissing her way up and up while Alistair swayed back on his knees, his eyes closing. By the time she had reached his neck, she was straddling him, pressing herself down against the bulge she could feel growing between his legs.

Then they were kissing again, both of them working feverishly to strip Lilias of her own armor. It was warm enough in the cave, but once she was bared to him Alistair took his cloak and slung it over her shoulders, pressing her back onto the bedroll while he rid himself of the rest of his own clothes. He joined her on the bedroll, and Lilias rolled him over so that she was on top, the heavy cloak covering them both. 

His hands found her breasts, massaging and stroking, and Lilias rubbed herself against him, feeling the heat of him against her own. Without fully intending to, she lifted her hips and took him inside herself, the most exquisite sensations shooting through her body as she seated herself fully on him.

“Lilias,” he groaned, his eyes closing with the pleasure. “Lilias!”

Her name. _Her_ name. Not the other name. Her name. Triumph rose in her as she rocked atop him, a great fierce wave of joy that at last he was free of the enchantment that had held his heart locked away for so long.

Her shout of victory was lost in the wind as she shot over the pinnacle. Alistair thrust up against her as she came down for the last time, growling deep in his throat as he achieved his own satisfaction.

Lilias slid off of him into his waiting arms, her head pillowed on his chest, and they fell asleep to the sounds of the wind outside and each other’s hearts inside.


	51. Inquisitorial Business

Thule stood in the stables in the dim light of a very early morning, sipping hot coffee and watching Scout Harding as she saddled her pony. “Let us know what you find out in the Hissing Wastes as soon as you get there.”

She glared at him. “I know what I’m doing, Inquisitor.”

“I know what I’m doing, too.”

“Do you?”

Thule sighed. “He lied, Lace. He killed people, he allowed his men to be hung for a crime he hid from, and he lied to us. To all of us. And, lest you forget, he wanted to die.”

“That’s no reason to exile a good sword arm.”

“Look, I understand. You cared for him—“

“I care for him,” she corrected. “He’s a good man.”

“I wish I agreed with you.”

“I wish you did, too.” She tightened the cinch on the pony’s saddle. “Promise me you won’t send him away until I get back.”

“I promise. I don’t think Leliana’s going to let me send him off to the Wardens at all, much less anytime soon.”

Harding turned to look at him. “You know the Wardens at Adamant listened to him. They accepted him as one of their own.”

“He talked a good game.” Thule shrugged. “And sometimes it takes an outsider to show you how much of yourself you’ve lost.”

“How much of yourself have you lost?”

“That’s not fair!” he retorted, stung. “The Carta would have had him killed. All I did was sentence him to be the Grey Warden he pretended to be. He’s always held up the Wardens in his head as an ideal; he might as well live with the reality.”

“He’s right.” The quiet voice of the man they’d been discussing startled them both. They turned to see Blackwall leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. “When Warden Blackwall met me, I was a wreck of a man starting a bar fight. For all my attempts to be a better man, I am still that wreck, that nobody, even today.”

Harding moved toward him, her whole heart in her eyes. Thule looked down at his coffee, his heart hurting for her, stuck in a situation so deeply painful to everyone involved. He cleared his throat. “If he’s not here when you get back, Lace, it won’t be my doing,” he promised, and he left them alone.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
He found Hawke in the training yard, slicing a dummy to pieces with her daggers. As he approached, she stopped, breathing heavily. “You’re up early.”

“So are you.”

“Got to get back in shape.”

“If you ask me, you’re in fine shape. That was good form,” he told her. 

“Put down the coffee and come have a bout?”

Thule shook his head. “Inquisitorial business today, too busy and important to spar.”

“That’s a shame.”

He grinned. “Isn’t it, though? So, how was Emprise du Lion?”

Hawke blushed, confirming the rumors he had heard about her and Alistair. He was happy for them—but judging from the wary way they were circling each other, neither of them was sure if they were happy for themselves. Or maybe he was turning into a romantic softie like Cassandra. Surely that couldn’t be a bad thing, could it? “It was fine,” Hawke said briefly. She looked over one of her daggers as if it was the most fascinating thing she had ever seen. “Got a nick in the edge of this one. I ought to file that down while I’m thinking of it.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed, keeping his face as straight as he could make it. “You should get right on that.” He knew better than to meddle where his opinion so very evidently wasn’t wanted … or at least, he did right now. Next time they spoke might be another thing entirely.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
On his way up the stairs into the main keep, he found Alistair in the entryway. As he approached, the King of Ferelden made an attempt to look as though he had just come out, but it was evident he had been standing there for some time.

Thule stopped in front of him. “Well?”

“Well what?” Alistair cleared his throat. “Wet subject. Hole in the ground.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But I do it so well.” They looked at each other, smiling, and then Alistair groaned and shook his head. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“That she hates me. That I completely screwed up, again, and now I don’t know what to do. What do you do when you hurt someone deeply and then they trusted you again and then you didn’t know how to handle that?”

“Apologize? Explain yourself?” Thule shook his head. “Anything but stand there staring at them.”

Alistair looked guiltily away from the figure with the black braids on the training ground. Lilias was back at it, shredding the dummies with single-minded efficiency.

“How bad was it, anyway?” Thule asked.

“Not so bad. Nowhere near as bad as the last time. It’s just … we had this moment, you know? And then the next morning, I wasn’t sure if it was more than a moment or not and there were all these people swarming around us being solicitous—of all the times to be the damned King,” he growled. “And I guess I didn’t … say anything. Or do anything. And I still don’t know what she wanted, if she wanted to forget about it or not, and I didn’t know how to ask.”

“Your Majesty, may I offer you a piece of advice?”

“Stay away from women?”

Thule smiled. “No. Stop thinking so much.”

“I didn’t think that was my problem.”

“You might be surprised.”

“Maybe.” But Alistair didn’t look convinced, and he was staring over Thule’s shoulder again at the woman on the training ground.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Dorian was just getting up from Varric’s table, leaving a very disgruntled dwarf staring at a particularly bad Wicked Grace hand. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” he told Varric. “I dealt you the best possible losing hand I could.”

“Very comforting.”

“Of course it is.” The mage smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Ah, good morning, Inquisitor," he said, turning to look at Thule as he approached.

“You seem in better spirits.”

“Much. It’s a lovely day, I won a great deal of Varric’s money, my father has been banished back to Tevinter where he belongs, and Mother Giselle is steering clear of me at all costs.” He took Thule’s coffee cup from his hands and sniffed it delicately, then made a face and handed it back. 

“Too robust for your delicate sensibilities?”

“Yes. Also, it’s cold.”

Thule took a swallow and shrugged. “Too many people to talk to.”

Dorian looked over his shoulder at Alistair and shook his head. “You’re wasting your breath with that one.”

“Why don’t you try, then?”

Both of them glanced at Varric, who was known to have opinions about the painful dance between the King of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall, but he was studiously ignoring them, ostentatiously examining the deck of cards for marks.

Dorian sighed. “I suppose I could try, although no one has ever profited from my romantic advice. I’m surprised you weren’t inspired to write them an ode, my friend.”

Thule blushed. Nathaniel Howe had been in his papers again and found his awkward attempts at poetry, he assumed.

Laughing uproariously, Dorian took his leave. Thule was glad to see the mage’s good humor restored.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Varric, on the other hand, was far from a return to good humor. Thule took the seat across from his fellow dwarf, who tried hard to pretend he wasn’t there.

“Tell me about Bianca.”

Varric’s reply was short, explosive, and profane.

“I’m not leaving,” Thule told him.

After a long glare, Varric heaved a heavy sigh. “Fine. But I’m not making any promises.”

“How long has this all been going on?”

“You mean, where we carefully keep a continent between us at all times, write letters, and agree to meet up occasionally? Too damned long.” He thought about it for a minute. “Shit. Fifteen years. Now I feel old—thanks a lot.”

“And why is the Merchants Guild after her?”

“Oh, they’re not after her. They’re after me. Since technically we aren’t supposed to be within three hundred leagues of each other, if it got back to the Guild that we were seen together, they’d freeze my assets. And then have me killed. Or possibly the other way around.”

“What in Thedas did you do to cause that?”

“Does it matter? I can’t change it now.”

“Well, then, how did you meet?”

“Stones, what’s up with the third degree?”

“You’re a cranky bastard these days, and I want to know why you insist on suffering through her betraying your trust.”

“Oh, that. The simple question.”

Thule looked at his fellow dwarf. “It could be.”

Varric shook his head in a decided negative. “No, it can’t. Look, could you just say good-bye to your precious Seeker if she did something that was completely predictable and in character for her, but hurt you?”

He was forced to admit he couldn’t. 

“Well, then,” Varric said.

“What is it about her?”

“How do I know? She’s beyond a doubt the most brilliant smith you’ll ever meet, totally focused on her craft. When she looks up from her work and sees me, it’s—like nothing I’ve ever been able to write about.”

“How long had it been since you’d seen her?”

“Not since she got married and moved to Orlais.”

“Married?”

“Yup. Her family’s choice; arranged marriage.”

“That’s barbaric!”

“Oh, Stones, if only you knew how often it still happens. And she didn’t care. He’s rich enough that she can dabble in privacy, lets her work wherever, whenever she needs to, and doesn’t ask a lot of questions. Works for her.”

“But not for you?”

“Look at me! Do I look like I would know what to do with a wife?”

“So you’ll take her back?”

“Eventually. It’s inevitable.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Varric winced. “I’ll tell you this, Stones—this is as long as I’ve ever managed to stay angry. When I think of the people who died because of what she did—“ He cleared his throat, and Thule thought he saw a tear in his friend’s eye. “I can’t talk about this anymore.”

“All right. If you ever want to …”

“Yeah. I know. And … I appreciate it.”

“I know you do.”

He left Varric alone and took his now nearly empty cup into Josephine’s office.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
She looked up from behind her desk with a smile, but he noticed she tucked the parchment she was writing on away in a drawer very quickly.

“Secret correspondence?” he asked teasingly, and was somewhat surprised when she blushed.

“I’m expecting a visitor.”

“Not that handsome young man from Halamshiral?” Her blush deepened and Thule smiled. “Good for you.”

“Oh, Inquisitor, surely not you, too. The whole of the Inquisition appears to be taken up by hopeless romantics who believe love conquers all,” she said pettishly.

“Don’t you?”

“Yes! Well … no. Not really. I’ve seen too many arranged marriages to believe they are good ideas.”

Thule thought of Varric and Bianca, and he couldn’t disagree. “But what if he arrives and you actually like him?”

“What if I do? Where will that leave the Inquisition? And my family? I have more to do with any given minute than I can possibly fit into it—I have no time for a love affair.”

“So write and tell him so.”

Her renewed blush told him all he needed to know.

“Then let him come here and see you at work, see how busy you are and everything you do for us, and if you need my help either shooing him away or finding you an assistant, you have it.”

“You make everything seem so easy, Inquisitor.”

“Isn’t that my job?”  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule’s next stop was the Undercroft, Harritt and Dagna both hard at work. He and Harritt spent a few minutes discussing a new pair of gauntlets Thule had commissioned for Cassandra.

“You know she’ll kill you when she finds out, right, Inquisitor?”

Thule laughed. “What’s life without a spice of danger?”

Harritt shook his head. “It’s your neck, Inquisitor.”

“That it is.”

Dagna’s head was bent over her work, the Arcanist unusually quiet. Harritt explained that she was studying the Templars’ blood to determine how best to wean them off their addiction to lyrium with the least possible negative side effects. Thule wished her luck with that, knowing how difficult it had been for Cullen.

As it happened, he ran into his general just outside the door to the Undercroft.

“Good morning, Inquisitor. I suppose nearly afternoon now, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Thule groaned. “Where does the time go?”

Cullen smiled. “I often ask the same question.”

“Have you had time to write to your sister?”

“Oh, not you, too. Has Dag—have others been telling you to pester me?”

“No, I come up with plenty of ways to pester people all on my own.”

“In that case … no. I haven’t yet. Although I have had some rather testy letters from my sister demanding information. She’s always been very good at tracking me down.”

Thule frowned. “Didn’t she know where you were?”

Cullen looked sheepish. “You’re aware of my difficulties finding time for these things.”

“Or anything, other than work. Yes. I’m aware. And as the Inquisitor, I order you to write to your sister.”

“Very well, Inquisitor. If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Shall I show it to you before I send it?”

“I’ll trust you. Provisionally.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Thule grinned at Cullen’s sarcasm and tipped his head toward the door to the Undercroft. “Now, don’t keep her waiting.”

“Her? Oh. Yes. Well.”

Leaving his commander to stammer and trip over his tongue in Dagna’s presence rather than her absence, Thule went in search of a fresh cup of coffee.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
After several hours on Josephine’s most recent stack of correspondence, Thule wandered out to the gardens for a breath of fresh air.

He almost immediately ran into Morrigan, who had taken up the gardens as a pet project—somewhat to the annoyance of the actual gardeners, which Thule regretted, but keeping Morrigan happy and out of everyone’s hair was a good thing, so he hadn’t had the heart to tell her to stop.

“Inquisitor.”

“Lady Morrigan.”

“Are your forces ready to head into the Arbor Wilds after Corypheus, Inquisitor? There is not as much time as you seem to think.”

“It would be foolish to attack without the appropriate forces,” he told her, as he did every time she addressed the question.

“If you say so.” Her tone indicated she thought him a fool. But Morrigan thought everyone a fool, so at least he was in good company.

“Tell me about yourself, Morrigan.”

“Whence comes the mystery woman, slinking her way into the Inquisition’s ranks?” 

He smiled at her irony. “Something like that.”

“Once upon a time … Is that not the way these narratives are best structured? I was an apostate, living well away from the banal influences of the Chantry in the Korcari Wilds. Then came the Fifth Blight with its darkspawn …” A flash of genuine sorrow crossed her face. Another victim of Leyden Amell, then, Thule surmised. He often wished he could have met the Grey Warden mage who had ended the Fifth Blight … but he didn’t, either, given all the pain she had left in her wake. Morrigan continued, “And then I left Ferelden for the Empress’s court.” She smiled with malicious pleasure. “’Tis certain the nobles of Orlais breathe a sigh of relief that I am now here.”

“The Orlesian court seems an interesting choice for a former apostate from the Wilds.”

“Very astute, Inquisitor. Originally, that was the point, to go as far from where I had come as I could. As it happened, the Empress and I fit together nicely. I became her advisor, and she my benefactor and source of refuge. But it is well that I am here now—too many wagging tongues, even for Celene. Our arrangement would not have lasted much longer.”

It was on the tip of Thule’s tongue to ask her how long her presence in the Inquisition seemed likely to last … but she would only remind him of her urgency to get to the Arbor Wilds again.

She frowned at him. “Tell me why you spared the Grey Wardens, Inquisitor.”

“They’re legendary in Thedas. There was little to be gained by destroying them.”

“If you say so. Given that the weakness Corypheus exploited was their own doing, your actions were remarkably generous.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Still, should a true Archdemon rise again, they will no doubt be needed. Or so they would have us believe.” A small smile played across her face, followed by an expression of regret. Thule chose not to ask about either emotion. Morrigan looked past him to another corner of the garden. “I see someone else wishes your attention, Inquisitor. I will not keep you.”

Thule followed the line of Morrigan’s gaze to see Leliana waiting, silent and motionless, in the shade of a wall covered with hanging garlands of Arbor Blessing. He left Morrigan with a nod of farewell and joined his spymaster.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“You know you can’t trust her.”

“Trust is an interesting topic for you to bring up,” he told her. He hated to be sharp with her, but her actions with regard to Blackwall still rankled.

“I apologize, Inquisitor. I … could do nothing else.”

“I know it. I just wish you had told me.” ‘Wish’ was an understatement, but they had been over all this already; there seemed little point in beating the dead horse.

Leliana’s eyes were on Morrigan again, anyway, as the former apostate knelt in the garden. “I have to admit she has changed. She used to be … cruel. Needlessly so, and took great enjoyment from it. Now …” She shook her head. “Perhaps it was the eluvian.”

“Why would it be that?” Thule thought he heard a gasp from somewhere nearby. If Leliana heard it, as well, she gave no sign, but he filed the sound away to look into.

“You told me yourself about the Crossroads, a world unlike our own. Perhaps experiencing such a thing changed Morrigan, shook her beliefs about the world.”

“Possibly. Or maybe she’s gotten older and begun to appreciate the importance of having other people in her life.” 

Leliana snorted. “That will be the day, Inquisitor.”  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leaving her to stare moodily at Morrigan, belying her attempt at forgiveness for whatever the apostate had done during the Blight, Thule went in search of the person he had heard gasping. Farther down the wall, hidden by a curtain of Arbor Blessing, he found Hawke’s Dalish companion. “Merrill.”

“Oh! Inquisitor! This must seem … odd.”

“Cutting flowers?”

“I … was …” Merrill was blushing, but she was also agitated, and the agitation won. “Inquisitor, did I hear Sister Nightingale correctly, you have actually been through an eluvian?”

“I have.”

“And—there is one here? In Skyhold?”

“There is.” He studied her, understanding at last, or thinking he did. “The eluvians are artifacts of your people.”

“It’s more than that. I used to have an eluvian, but I could never get it to work, but you are a _durgen’len_ and she is a _shemlen_ and you have both been through one. It’s very upsetting.”

“I can understand that.”

“No. You can’t.” Her accent was thickening as she spoke. “You don’t know what I did to make the eluvian work, you don’t know what—what others did.” Tears stood in her large green eyes, trembling on the lashes. “And to come here and find you all discussing it as though it were nothing, an ancient toy to play with—“ She cut herself off and ran from him, fleeing the garden. Thule looked after her sadly, wishing she hadn’t been there to hear. He’d have to find Varric or Hawke and get them to look after her.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Before he could do anything about that thought, Krem rushed up to him. “Inquisitor, can you come with me? The Chief’s asking for you.”

“Sure. Everything all right?”

“Think so. You know the chief, he doesn’t tell any more than he has to.”

Thule followed Krem up to the battlements, where the Iron Bull was waiting. “Hey, boss.”

“Hey. You asked to see me?”

“Yeah. Good timing.” Even as he spoke, a man in an Inquisition scout’s uniform came up behind him with a knife in his hand. The Iron Bull turned, one meaty hand catching the scout under the chin and snapping his neck back. Another man, this one in a soldier’s uniform, threw a knife at the Iron Bull that caught the Qunari in the shoulder. With a bellow of rage, the Iron Bull yanked the knife out and threw it at the soldier.

It was all happening so fast that Thule didn’t have time to protest, or even to wonder if the Iron Bull had suddenly turned on the Inquisition. 

At his side, Krem said, “Chief!” and the Iron Bull shook his head. “I got it, Krem.”

The knife bounced off the soldier’s helmet. He staggered backward, and looked up at the Iron Bull with an expression of black hatred. “ _Ebost issala, Tal-Vashoth_.”

The Qunari picked up the soldier and tossed him over the side of the battlement like he’d been a rag doll. As he watched the man fall, he shouted after him, “Yeah, my soul may be dust, but yours is scattered all over the ground, so … who got the best of that deal?” After a moment, he grasped his shoulder, rolling it and grunting in pain. “Sorry, boss. Thought I might need backup. Turns out, it was only a formality.”

“That was a formality?”

“Yeah. Two guys against me? Just a message. That I’m not even worth sending professionals for.” He looked sadly down at his battered boots.

“Chief, you all right? You want me to look at that shoulder?” Krem asked.

“Nah. I’ve hurt myself worse than this fooling around in bed.”

“Do we have to go after them now?” Thule was hoping they weren’t about to get into some back-and-forth with the Qunari.

The Iron Bull shook his head. “Go after the entire Ben-Hassrath? Pointless. Besides, they’re done with me now.” He looked at the man in the scout’s uniform. “That was just the final slap in the face, to make sure I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That I’m Tal-Vashoth. Tal-Va-fucking-shoth.”

“Chief.”

“It’s all right, Krem.”

“You sure?” Thule asked.

The Iron Bull nodded. “It’s a knife wound, boss. I think I’ll live.”

“Not what I meant.”

“I know. I’ll get this cleaned up and let Red know what happened. She might have some fun with it.” He bent to lift the body, then stopped and looked at Thule. “Boss. Just so you know … Whatever I miss, whatever I regret, this is where I want to be.” He turned his single eye on Krem. “It’s more than worth it.”

“Thanks,” Krem said, his usual flippancy gone for the moment.

“Glad to have you, Bull,” Thule told him.

The Qunari grunted, heaving the body up on his shoulders, and left the battlement, Krem in tow.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“There you are.” 

Thule turned toward the voice, smiling. “How did you know you were just exactly the only person I wanted to see right now?”

“I didn’t know … but I hoped.” Cassandra looked down at him, frowning into his face. “Are you aware that it is nearly sunset? And no doubt you have not found time for a meal in hours.”

“Or all day,” he said guiltily, patting his stomach as it growled loudly.

“As it happens, I prepared for just that circumstance. Come.” She took his hand, and they made their way down the battlements and through the gardens and the keep and up to his quarters. Thule couldn’t help the swagger that came into his walk as Cassandra paraded him through the Inquisition, her hand in his. After having desired her for so long, to have her so comfortable acknowledging the relationship was … everything he had hoped for.

In his quarters, Cassandra gestured to the meal spread out on a cloth in front of the fire. She poured him a glass of wine. “Now, you sit and eat, Inquisitor.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He sat down and pulled a plate toward him, piling it high with grapes and cheese and chicken and bread. “Aren’t you eating?”

“I already did. Long ago, when everyone else was eating.” She frowned at him again.

“I get it. I’m sorry, I don’t take care of myself very well.” He offered her a smile. “That’s what I have you for.”

As he had hoped, her face softened into a smile, too. “So you do.”

“Talk to me, then. Tell me about Varric.”

“Varric?”

“Yes. He’s very unhappy about Bianca, and it’s made me curious as to why you brought him to the Conclave in the first place. How did you get him out of Kirkwall?”

“You must have heard this already. I had the Seekers drag him out of that dreadful bar, and I … held him on the ship until it had left the dock.”

“You kidnapped him!”

“There are ways of interpreting the situation that would lead to that conclusion, yes.” Cassandra swirled the wine around in her glass, looking down at it. “I wanted him to testify about the events of Kirkwall to the Divine. I wanted the Divine to convince him to bring Hawke out of hiding to be our Inquisitor. I thought I could shape the future by force.” She raised her stricken grey eyes to his. “You can see how I failed.”

“Hey.” Thule put the plate aside without a second thought, reaching for her hand. “The Conclave wasn’t your fault. If anything, it was mine.”

“But who allowed Corypheus there? Who wasn’t there when the Divine needed her? That was I.”

“Or Leliana.”

“Splitting hairs, I think.”

“Wait, hadn’t Varric written all that down in _The Tale of the Champion_?”

Cassandra gave him a withering look. “I had hoped the Divine would convince him to tell the truth. You’ve seen Hawke—can you imagine her defeating a Qunari Arishok in single combat?”

In truth, Thule couldn’t. 

“In addition …” Cassandra’s eyes took on a soft, fond look. “The Divine wished to meet him. She … wanted him to autograph her copy of _Hard in Hightown_.”

Thule laughed. “Of course she did.”

He caught Cassandra’s mouth in a long kiss, starting as a comfort and a gesture of understanding, and ending in rising passion.

“You are quite distracting, you know that?” she murmured, leaning her head happily against his chest. Somehow his shirt and vest had disappeared in the course of the kiss, and Cassandra was threading her fingers gently through the red hair that furred his chest.

“I hope so.” He stroked her neck, admiring the long lines and smooth pale skin.

They sat like that for a long time. Thule snuck the occasional grape or bite of cheese off his discarded plate, taking the edge off his hunger. 

“Cassandra.”

“Yes, my love?”

He thrilled to the sound of the casual endearment. “A long while ago I asked you about your brother. Will you tell me about him now?”

She sat up, drawing her knees to her chest, the moment broken. 

“Or don’t, if you’d rather not.”

“No. I want to. It’s just … that I have not spoken of him to anyone in such a long time.”

“He was older?”

“Yes. He was a dragon hunter.” A smile touched her mouth as she gazed into the fire, lost in memories. “A dragon hunter that showed what a Pentaghast could truly be. I wanted nothing more out of my life than to be exactly like him.”

“You idolized him.” Thule tried to imagine Cassandra as a young girl, watching her older brother with starry, innocent eyes. She was an entrancing image. 

“Oh, yes. I was insistent on hunting dragons with him someday, even though our uncle forbade it.” She looked down, her clenched fists resting on her knees. “Anthony promised to train me in secret. We would hunt together one day, brother and sister vanquishing the beasts of old.” She drew in a long shuddering breath. “And then he died on me.”

Thule drew her back against him, holding her fiercely. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“I want you to know,” she assured him. 

“What happened?”

“A group of apostates wanted dragon blood, and they wanted Anthony to get it for them. He refused, and they killed him for it. In front of me.”

“Maker.”

She nodded, not looking at him. “I begged the Chantry to let me become a Templar. I wanted to hunt them down, kill them as they had him. But instead the Chantry sent me to the Seekers. It … it took me many years and all the discipline I learned to get past my drive for vengeance.”

“I can imagine.” He held her to him, kissing her temple and her cheek, wanting to offer her comfort in any way he could.

“I sometimes wonder how different my life would be if Anthony was still alive.” With a small, almost indiscernible sigh, she leaned her head back against his shoulder, her long body and longer legs stretching out as she relaxed against him. “I doubt I would have begun an Inquisition.”

“Maybe you would have. You never know.”

“Or perhaps I would be the dragon hunter I dreamed of becoming.” She turned her head on his shoulder and smiled at him. “Or perhaps I would be married to some noble fool, mother of three.”

“That one’s hard to imagine.” 

“It is for me as well.”

Suddenly he wondered—would she marry him? It wasn’t the time to ask, but … for the first time, he could see himself doing so. He wasn’t noble … but there were those who had called him a fool. As for the three children—dwarves and humans rarely produced children together, but then, they rarely had relationships with one another. He wouldn’t mind, he thought with a great deal of surprise. With her, her children … he really wouldn’t mind.

Cassandra was looking at the fire again. She spoke softly. “I take solace in believing that the Maker has a plan—but he is not always kind.”

“He was kind to me,” Thule whispered. “He brought me to you.”

“And I thank Him for that.”


	52. Ancient History

Alistair had come out to the garden for a breath of fresh air, and so that he could stop staring at Lilias long enough to figure out what to do about her and their suddenly altered relationship that didn’t seem to have changed at all. Across the expanse of the growing greenery, he caught sight of Lilias’s friend Merrill on her knees at Morrigan’s door. He looked swiftly around for Morrigan, but didn’t see her. Hopefully she was far from here, brewing potions or ordering around the kitchen staff, as he understood she did occasionally.

In a few long strides he had closed the distance, grasping Merrill’s arm and hauling her to her feet. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Go away. This is none of your concern.”

“She’ll have wards, you know. She’s not foolish. Whatever you want to get in there to see so badly, she’ll have protected it.”

“I can get around her wards.”

“And what then? If you want it this badly, it’ll be something she’ll know you took.” He was rather pleased with that leap of logic, and Merrill didn’t deny it.

“I don’t care,” she said stubbornly. “You have no idea what’s at stake, what I’ve done—what I would still do to get my hands on a working eluvian.”

“Eluvian?”

“It’s a mirror. An ancient elven mirror with magical properties—oh, never mind what it is,” she snapped impatiently. “All you need to know is that it’s in there and I need to get in there, too.”

“Hawke would kill me if I let anything happen to you. And something surely will if you go around messing with Morrigan’s belongings.”

“Hawke would never harm a hair of your head. She loves you too much, although why I’m sure I couldn’t say. Now will you let me go!” It was a demand rather than a question, punctuated with a stamp of Merrill’s bare foot.

But not even the thunderclouds building in the elf’s green eyes or the sense of building magic that his latent Templar skills could detect in her could distract him from what she had said. “Loves me? Is that what you said? She loves me?”

“Oh, what kind of an idiot are you? Of course she loves you—that’s why you hurt her so badly, and why she couldn’t go to you when she needed you.” Merrill rolled her eyes at him. “And people call me dense.”

“Look,” Alistair said, thinking rapidly. He had to get her away from here before Morrigan came back and found them there—the witch would be sure to guess that they were up to no good, and if she had an ancient elven artifact squirreled away, she would have to know that was what Merrill was after. “You set up a chance for me to talk to Hawke and make things right between us, and I’ll get you in to see that mirror.”

Merrill looked at him suspiciously. “Do you promise?”

“On the honor of a Grey Warden,” he told her.

She seemed satisfied with that. “All right. Let me talk to Hawke, and I’ll meet you back here after breakfast in the morning.”

Alistair agreed, and they parted ways, leaving Morrigan’s door alone, hopefully in time to avoid her finding out they were there. How he was going to convince Morrigan to let the Dalish elf into her quarters, he had no idea. Would he never be done letting his rash tongue get him in trouble with women?  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana sat back in her chair and propped her feet up on her desk as she read over the scout’s report from Emprise du Lion. She smiled at the description of the way Alistair and Lilias had looked when they were found in the cave the morning after the storm. So, was her old friend finally finding his way? She hoped so. He had done enough penance, for a crime that wasn’t really his to begin with. He was a bumbling fool, but he meant well, and he had paid long enough.

Heavy footsteps creaked on the stairs, and she swung her legs down and sat up, one hand on her hip near the dagger she kept there. When she saw that it was Blackwall, she relaxed.

They stared at one another, neither blinking. “I never asked you why you did it,” he said at last.

“No, you didn’t.”

“So?”

Leliana shrugged. “I owed a debt.”

“To whom? The Hero of Ferelden?”

“Perhaps.”

“She died. I should have done the same. Besides, I am no Warden.”

“You’re more of a Warden than you give yourself credit for.”

“No. I’m not,” Blackwall said heavily. “I am a monster and a criminal, and I deserve nothing so much as to die for my crimes.”

“No one deserves to die.”

“I do.”

Leliana got to her feet. “Justinia would have said that anyone can atone, if they work hard enough at it. I believe you have made it your life’s work since Blackwall was killed to live with honor, to make up for what you did.”

“And it was never enough!” he cried. “Never. It never will be. And now I have to live with that pain even longer, knowing I couldn’t even die properly.”

“Is that why you were going to let Celene put you to death, because you wanted to escape the pain?”

“Yes, then, if you will have it so,” Blackwall growled. “I’m a bloody coward as well as a murderer and a liar. I sully the Inquisition by my mere presence. Your precious Inquisitor knew it; he was willing to let me die as I deserved. Why couldn’t you have left well enough alone?”

Leliana looked down at the toes of her boots. “I couldn’t. I …” She shook her head. “Everyone deserves another chance.”

“I’ve had my chance. I hid in the wilderness and threw it away.”

“You came with the Inquisition and fought at the Inquisitor’s side,” she countered. “You saved his life, you worked for the good of all Thedas against Corypheus.”

“There are others to carry on that work for me.”

“Yes, perhaps, but there are a dwindling number of others who are willing to be Grey Wardens. Thedas needs as many as it can get—men and women of strength and courage and honor who will lift their blades against darkspawn and the Blight.”

Blackwall snorted a laugh. “And I thought I idolized them. You and your king really fell for the Hero, didn’t you?”

“Everyone did,” Leliana agreed softly. “She brought out the best in everyone she met—and the worst, too. But she fought, as you do. And she was needed, as you are.”

“And that’s the best reason you can give me?”

“It’s the best reason I have,” she said simply. “It will have to be enough.”

“I wish to the Maker it was,” he said, and left her there alone with the ghosts he had reawakened.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Behind Lilias, the door to Cullen’s office closed. She didn’t turn; the soldiers and scouts had been in and out of there for hours as she sat on the battlements, and none of them had disturbed her. But this time she didn’t hear footsteps, and eventually she heard someone clear their throat behind her, a shy, hesitant sound. 

She looked over her shoulder and saw the dwarf who worked in the Undercroft standing there. “I’m sorry, am I disturbing you?”

“No, not at all. I was just …” What was she just? Thinking? Brooding? Dreaming? Wishing? It was hard to say. “I’m sorry, though, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard your name.”

“Dagna. And you’re the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Lilias, please. I’m not sure the Champion of Kirkwall ever existed. Want to join me? Or … are you afraid of heights?”

“You should see how far down the lava is in Orzammar,” Dagna said, climbing up onto the wall next to Lilias.

“What brings you up to Cullen’s office?”

“Oh, I was just bringing him some reports.” But Dagna’s blush said it was more than that.

“Have you known him long?”

“Yes. Since Kinloch Hold.”

“Oh.” Lilias knew only what Alistair had told her about what had occurred in Ferelden’s Circle, but it sounded horrific. “Were you there when—?”

“No, but Cullen was.”

“I see.” It explained a lot, actually, about the way Cullen had been in Kirkwall, and the way he was now. He had wanted to punish the mages, nearly as strict as Meredith, when Lilias first met him; now he seemed to want to atone for the man he had been in Kirkwall. He was much kinder, much gentler, much less sure of himself. At least, off the battlefield, she thought, remembering how he had been at Adamant.

Dagna must have been able to see some of the progress of her thoughts in her face, because the dwarf was nodding. “It was very hard for him.”

“And you became friends afterward?”

“The Hero of Ferelden made it possible for me to leave Orzammar and study in the Circle. I arrived after … everything had happened. I spent a lot of time listening to the surviving mages and Templars.”

“That must have been a different sort of education than you’d intended.”

“You would think so, but … it’s as important to see how magic can go wrong, how people are affected by that, how they recover, as any other area of study.” Dagna looked at Lilias with curiosity. “I heard you’re the Hero’s cousin. You look like her, a little, only more … open.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She was very … certain of herself, sure she had the answers, always. You … you seem like you’re okay if other people disagree with you.”

“I certainly don’t think I have the answers.” Lilias’s gaze fell on Alistair, far below. She had thought something had changed between them, that night in Emprise du Lion, but apparently nothing had. 

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever felt something so strongly for someone, and they were completely oblivious to it?”

Lilias was startled. It wasn’t something she had expected from the dwarf, who looked like a cute little girl but sounded like an intelligent woman. She rather suspected many people made the error of thinking Dagna's looks were who she was. “Yes. Yes, I have,” she said honestly.

“What did you do?”

She laughed bitterly. “Flailed around, hid, pretended it was nothing, got angry. Nothing particularly productive.” Looking at Dagna, she asked, “What did you do?”

“Waited. And waited. And waited some more. Every once in a while I think he’ll see—but he never does,” Dagna said sadly.

Somewhat belatedly, Lilias put two and two together. Cullen. Dagna was in love with Cullen. Well, she wished her luck with that; for as long as she’d known him, Cullen had carried only one woman’s name on his heart, just as Alistair did. “It’s worse when they love someone who’s gone and can’t forget her.”

“Yes,” Dagna agreed vehemently. So she knew. Of course she did. “Worse yet when the person deserves to be loved that way.”

“No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t.” Turning to look Dagna full in the face, Lilias said, “My cousin played games with people’s lives. I can’t even count the number of people who have never been able to move on with their lives because she kept them on a string.”

“She wasn’t like that!” Dagna protested.

“Yes, she was. Look at the King of Ferelden. At Sister Nightingale. For the Maker’s sake, look at that apostate that came back with us from Orlais! None of them can let her go.”

“Because she was a presence.”

“Because she was a poison. Yes,” Lilias said decisively, “because she was a poison. And if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to exorcise that poison from at least one person. And you should, too.”

Dagna looked over her shoulder, her face sad. “I wish it was that easy.”

“Try it,” Lilias told her. “Maybe it will be.”


	53. The Eluvian

“Varric. Varric, I have to talk to you.”

He looked up into Daisy’s wide green eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittered … the last time he’d seen her look like that she’d been begging them to take her up a mountain to awaken a demon. “Daisy. Whatever this is, are you sure about it?”

“I’ve never been more sure. Did you know—“ She caught herself and looked around anxiously, then leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “The apostate Morrigan has an eluvian. And it works!”

It was only because she was looking at him so closely, and with such expectation, that Varric was able to keep from groaning and rolling his eyes. Here they went again. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“Oh, no,” Daisy assured him solemnly. “King Alistair seems to think she’s very dangerous.”

“She is very dangerous. You don’t want to go messing with her.” He narrowed his eyes, struck by a sudden idea. “Have you talked to Chuckles about this?”

“Solas?” Daisy blinked, looking suddenly doubtful. She sank into the chair on her side of the table. “I … don’t think he would approve.”

“Of you messing around with an eluvian, or of you messing around with that eluvian?”

“I’m not certain.” 

“Do you remember what happened the last time?” He hated to do it to her, to bring her back to that cold cave on the mountain top, to the smell of blood and the twisted body that had been her Keeper’s, to the angry shouts of those who had been her clan, to the awful stillness after they had been forced to kill all the suddenly crazed elves. But after that, the very word ‘eluvian’ chilled Varric straight to the bone, and he couldn’t bear to see Daisy walk that path again, not without having given serious thought to what she was doing.

But apparently it had been the wrong move. She sat forward, her delicate face set and determined. “I remember, Varric. How could I forget? I sacrificed … everything, let my people go to their deaths, all to recapture just one piece of our people’s history. And now another piece of that history is here in Skyhold, being used by a sh—a human, of all things, and you want me to just forget about it?”

“Well, not forget, exactly …” Except that he did, very much, want her to do just that.

“I can’t. King Alistair promised to help me—“ She stopped when Varric raised his eyebrows as far as they would go, a silent reminder of someone else who had trusted His Majesty, counted on him, and been burnt. “He means it,” Daisy said firmly, trying to convince herself as much as him.

“You think he’s going to face the witch for you? He’s almost as afraid of her as he is of himself.”

“Oh, what’s the use of talking to you?” Daisy snapped. “If I have to sneak in myself, I will. Anything I have to do!”

“Don’t! Please. Go talk to Chuckles. Ask him about this thing. Or talk to the witch yourself. You don’t have to go through it to learn about it.” He couldn’t help remembering the way she had been before, when she was in the throes of her obsession. Thin and gaunt and hollow-eyed, like she was halfway through the mirror and into some shadowy realm that didn’t exist already. He couldn’t see her go down that path again.

“You just don’t want me to find out about the elves’ past.”

“Daisy!” He was truly stung. “I would never keep you from that. I just think—I just think this is the wrong way for you to do it.”

Her eyes had filled with tears, and he swallowed hard against the automatic softening of his heart at the sight. “It calls to me, Varric.”

“Only now that you know it’s there.”

“But I do know, and I can’t stop knowing, and … I have to know, don’t you see? How she opened it and what’s on the other side, and—“ She shook her head. “I’ll never make you understand.”

“No,” he agreed softly, “I don’t think you will.”

She got up and left him alone at the table.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Morrigan looked up from the book she was writing in as Alistair approached. “So. You have come to attempt to beguile me into looking the other way while Hawke’s little elven friend sneaks in and pilfers my eluvian?”

He frowned. “Must you always be ten steps ahead?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah. All right. I suppose I walked into that one.”

“So you did. Do scintillate me with your witty banter, your enchanting conversational skills, your charming personality.” She closed the book and leaned back in her chair, arranging her features into an expectant look.

“Stop being ridiculous.”

“I? I am not the one assuming skills he does not possess.”

“Fine, then, what do you suggest I do? She was going to break in.”

Morrigan chuckled, not pleasantly. “She would not have enjoyed the results.”

“That’s what I told her. Look—I don’t know the details of what happened, but apparently she used to have an eluvian, or a broken one, or a piece of one …” He trailed off, wishing he had thought to ask Lilias for the full story before he walked into this mess. “Anyway, she tried to make it work and very bad things happened.”

“And so you naturally thought that I would just let her waltz into mine with open arms? Perhaps I had overestimated how far you have come since the Blight.”

“Well, not by herself, certainly. Since you seem to know so much about it, maybe you could help her, show her—“

“And I would do this from the goodness of my heart?” Morrigan asked coolly, that faint, superior smile he hated so much playing across her face.

“It wouldn’t kill you to pretend you have one,” he snapped.

“How do you know? Perhaps it would.”

Alistair frowned. “Knowing you, it might, at that. So what do I do, tell her that you’re too cold and greedy to share?”

“It is as close to the truth as anything else you might say of me,” Morrigan pointed out.

“Except that—well, I don’t know Merrill that well, but I don’t think she’s the type to take no for an answer, not where this is concerned. Hawke only seems to know stubborn people. Maybe it’s an Amell thing.” He thought about the denizens of the Inquisition. “Or a saving the world thing. Either way, I go to Merrill and tell her you said no, she’ll just keep trying to sneak behind your back, and then she’ll get hurt, and Hawke will be mad and the Inquisitor will be mad, and … things have the potential to go very badly, in that case.”

Morrigan sighed. “You do have a point.”

“I do? I mean, of course I do.”

“You shouldn’t look so surprised. Were you not going to consider developing some self-confidence?”

“Turns out, that’s not easy. It takes work.”

“Mental work, which is not exactly your forte.”

“No.” He hated agreeing to that—it made him sound … lazy, and worthless, and all the things Arlessa Isolde had ever accused him of being—but it was the truth. 

“Well, there is no time like the present to develop the capacity. Actually, that is not true. There is no time like ten years ago for you to have developed the capacity, but since that time is long past …” She shrugged.

“Yes, yes, I get your point. Will you help Merrill?”

Morrigan considered it. “I will speak with her. Send her, and the Inquisitor, to me, and … I will give the matter some thought.”

“Thank you,” Alistair said, somewhat unwillingly. He hated to be beholden to Morrigan, even on someone else’s behalf.

“Oh, my pleasure indeed,” she said, her eyes sparkling wickedly. She opened the book again and bent over it, an obvious gesture of dismissal. Alistair was too grateful that the conversation had gone so unexpectedly well to object to the rudeness—after all, what else could he have expected of her?  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule and Merrill found Morrigan in the garden, waiting for them, as though she had known exactly when to expect them. He had to admit, the witch worried him. He didn’t understand her, or what she wanted with the Inquisition. She didn’t seem to be spying for Orlais—no doubt Celene had her spies in his organization, as he had his in hers, but Morrigan did not seem to be among them. So why was she here? And who was she? Alistair knew her best, and even he wasn’t certain … or he was too thoroughly under her spell, cowed by the undoubted force of her personality, to see her clearly.

“So. You have come to ask me for my eluvian,” Morrigan said.

“Your eluvian?” Merrill began hotly. “That mirror belongs to my—“ She stopped when Thule put a hand on her arm.

“Would there be any harm in letting her see it?” he asked Morrigan.

“Harm?” Morrigan mused. “Who can tell? The mirror is unpredictable. I assume you have already told her about your experience with it, about the Crossroads.”

“Yes, and I can’t see why, if you let a _durgen’len_ through, you cannot let through a member of the elvhen.”

“And what is to stop you from taking the mirror for your own use?” Morrigan asked. “I barely know you, I certainly cannot say that I trust you, it is evident that you do not trust me … We seem to be at an impasse.”

Merrill began to protest again, her eyes snapping with anger, but this time she caught herself, going silent and studying Morrigan’s face. A faint smile played on the witch’s lips, one that said she knew perfectly well that she had the upper hand. At last Merrill said, “What do you want?”

“Ah. Now we get to the heart of the situation. I have something that you wish to possess—but you have nothing that I wish to possess.”

“I have an _arulin’holm_ ,” Merrill said, the words coming out quickly, as though she was getting them out before she regretted them.

“Do you?” Morrigan said with unfeigned interest, and for a moment Merrill held her breath, clearly thinking she had won. Then Morrigan added, “Intriguing, but I have no need of an _arulin’holm_.”

“Then what?” 

“Perhaps … perhaps one day you can do me a favor, and then on that day, I will give you the eluvian in exchange.”

“One day?” Merrill asked. “What if ‘one day’ never comes?”

Morrigan shrugged. “What is that to me?”

Merrill stepped forward. She was shorter than the human, her slender body seeming slight and frail next to Morrigan’s … but even Thule could feel the power building in her. “Do not play with me, witch.”

“Nor you with me,” Morrigan said sharply. They were equal to equal now, mage to mage, power to power. “’Tis a bitter pill to swallow, to know that I have something you want so badly and that you cannot get it from me—but you cannot, and you will have to live with that. At some point, there will be something I want that you can procure for me, and on that day, you will have the eluvian and all that I know of it, to do with as you wish. Until then … if you go near it, you will regret it. And Hawke will regret it.”

She had struck where Merrill was most vulnerable. What she would have dared despite the danger to herself, she would not dare when the danger threatened her friend. Thule hurt for the elf, and he wished again that he understood Morrigan better. As it was, he had no weapon against her that could help Merrill. Not today.

Morrigan looked at him over Merrill’s shoulder. “You are a witness, Inquisitor, that I have promised this woman what she wants, in my own time, and that she is not to go near my mirror without my permission.”

“Yes,” he said reluctantly, “I am. But be careful who you threaten within my Inquisition, Morrigan.” 

“Understood, Inquisitor.”

“Come on, Merrill.”

Unwillingly, Merrill turned away from Morrigan, her shoulders slumped and her eyes filled with tears. She disappeared in the direction of Solas’s atrium, and Thule let her go, knowing that Solas could comfort her better in this circumstance than he could.


	54. Wicked Grace

“Hey, Stones, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Varric called, weaving his way through the tables in the Herald’s Rest. “You, too, Seeker,” he added after a pause in which Cassandra and Thule both stared pointedly at him.

“Is this something I’m going to have to let her kick your ass for, Varric?” Thule asked.

“No, no, perfectly innocent.”

“You have never done anything perfectly innocent in your entire life,” Cassandra pointed out.

“Now, Seeker, don’t be so negative. As if I could stop you,” Varric muttered in a completely audible aside that Cassandra chose not to dignify with a response. “You’re both quite late. We nearly decided to start without you.”

“How can I be late to something I never agreed to in the first place?”

“You are asking for logic from Varric?”

Thule grinned, both at Cassandra’s question and at Varric’s roll of the eyes in response. “Foolish of me.”

“Well, come on, then.”

They followed him to a private room in the back of the tavern, where Thule was surprised to see many of his companions and advisors clustered around a table while Josephine … shuffled cards? He frowned at his fellow dwarf. “What are you up to, Varric?”

“Wicked Grace, of course! We’ve all been working entirely too hard.”

Well, that much was true. Certainly it was true of Cullen, who looked rather uncomfortable in his seat, and of Josephine, who was shuffling with an attempt at clumsiness that didn’t fool Thule in the least. He’d played with her before. As had the Iron Bull, who was watching her like a hawk. Hawke herself seemed rather intent on the cards, although perhaps that was to avoid Alistair’s gaze, trained equally intently on her. Dorian seemed the most relaxed, leaning back and twirling the stem of a wineglass casually between his fingers. 

“Varric, are you certain this is a good idea?” Cassandra asked. She looked uncomfortable, and Thule realized with surprise that he had never seen her play cards. Was this a rare thing that she wasn’t good at? 

“Of course it is. Let’s all let down our hair a little. Or, you know, keep it up, if you’d prefer, Seeker. Deal him in, Ruffles.” Varric waved them both to seats and took his own.

“I do hope I recall the rules,” Josephine said, looking worried. “It’s been ages since I’ve played a game of Wicked Grace.”

“It’s been three days, you cardsharp,” the Iron Bull growled. “I had to borrow money from Krem because you cleaned me out.”

“And yet you’re still here, ready to play again,” mused Dorian. “One might suspect you were a glutton for punishment. At least, where ladies with charming accents are concerned.” He winked at the Qunari, who frowned back. Clearly Dorian suspected the same thing about the Iron Bull’s relationship with Vivienne that Thule did.

Josephine dealt swiftly and efficiently, and everyone picked up their hands, adjusting the cards or not, depending on how concerned they were about tells. Lilias in particular shifted her cards around a great deal, studiously ignoring Alistair, who didn’t seem to have so much as glanced at his cards yet.

Cassandra leaned over and whispered in Thule’s ear. “Are three drakes better than a pair of swords? I can never remember.”

“What’ll you give me if I tell you?” he whispered back, letting his breath caress her ear in a way he knew drove her wild.

She clenched her teeth against a shiver, but underneath the table her calf nudged against his knee, and Thule grinned at her. 

“Stick with me, I’ll show you the ropes.” 

“Hey, no helping!” Varric protested.

Thule merely raised his eyebrows, and Varric subsided with a grumble.

Cole frowned at his hand, speaking up for the first time. “There’s a crown on his head, but a sword, too. His head didn’t want either.”

“Don’t talk to the face cards, kid. And if they talk to you, keep it to yourself,” the Iron Bull told him.

Cullen cleared his throat, pushing his chair back, his cards lying face down before him. “You … seem to have more than enough people, and I have a thousand things to do.”

“So do I,” Thule told him. “Stay and play cards. The Inquisition won’t come crashing down around our ears if we take a few hours off.”

“Losing money can be both relaxing and habit forming,” Dorian agreed. He shifted a card from the left side of his hand to the right and shook his head. “An axiom I’m about to illustrate all too thoroughly, it appears. Do give it a try, Cullen.”

“Seriously, Curly, stay. If any man in history ever needed a hobby, it’s you.”

“Don’t I remember hearing tales about card games in the barracks at the Gallows, back in the good old days?” Hawke smiled. 

“There were good old days in the Gallows?” Varric asked.

“Not that I recall,” Cullen said dryly, but he sank back into his chair and picked up his cards.

Alistair glanced from Lilias to Cullen with something like envy. “Are we betting now?” 

“Yes,” Josephine said decisively. “Dealer starts. Ooh … I believe … I’ll start with … three coppers! Or do you think that’s too daring?” Her eyes twinkled at the Iron Bull, who groaned loudly.

“You are the most infuriating woman. Silver, or go home.”

“The bolder, the better. I’m in.” Dorian added his bet on top of Josephine’s. Varric and Lilias anted up as well, while Alistair and Cole folded.

Cullen considered it carefully, then placed his bet. Thule tossed his on top of the pile. Cassandra reached for her own pile of coin, but Thule frowned at her and shook her head, and she folded instead.

“This would be a lot more fun if you’d let her lose, Stones.”

“For you, or for me?” Thule winked at his fellow dwarf. “I know whose fun I’m more concerned with.”

“Behave yourself,” Cassandra said, swatting him on the arm, but beneath the table her leg had hooked itself over his, dragging her chair just that little bit closer to his so that their hips were practically pressed against each other. If he played his cards right, in more ways than one, he imagined he’d be winning big later.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Alistair glanced at his cards, but they didn’t register. He had never enjoyed Wicked Grace—Zevran and Leliana used to clean him out regularly during the Blight. He had only agreed to play tonight because Lilias was going to be there, and he so desperately wanted a chance to make things right with her. Only he was playing badly, and she was quite good, and so he was making a fool of himself again in front of her, and he had no idea how to fix any of it. 

A roar of laughter around the table startled him out of his reverie, and he realized that Cullen had been telling a long story, and doing so with apparently a surprising amount of verve, given the response. Everyone seemed to have been hanging on his every word—including Lilias. What had happened between them in Kirkwall after he … left? Alistair wondered. Cullen had seen the resemblance between the cousins just as he had, and he had stared after Lilias with a longing similar to the one Alistair had felt. Alistair felt bad about that now. He should have seen Lilias for who she was from the start, rather than allowing the hopeless puppy love he had hung onto so long to make him see only Leyden. 

The Inquisitor was one of the few who weren’t intent on what Cullen was saying, distracted by something going on under the table. Alistair could feel his ears pinken at the thought of such intimate touching, hidden just out of sight, that had Cassandra’s eyes glittering so brightly and the Inquisitor’s face flushed so that his tattoos stood out black against his reddened face. Maker, how he wanted to grab Lilias by the hand and spirit her out of the room.

Varric was beginning a story about breaking into Chateau Haine, in Orlais, and Alistair was genuinely curious—Varric and Hawke had nearly begun an international incident in the process of whatever had happened at Duke Prosper’s last hunt—so he tried to focus, but he was soon distracted again by Lilias’s silvery laugh and her bright blue eyes and the way she and Varric teased each other in the process of telling the story.

“And then Hawke looks up and says, ‘Looks like the Duke … has fallen from grace,’” Varric finished, and Lilias shook her head.

“I never said anything that dreadful, you liar.”

“Of course you did. At least, in the official version.” Varric grinned at her.

Josephine shook her head. “So that’s how Duke Prosper died? You know, that’s almost perfect for him.” 

“Oh, it was,” Lilias agreed. “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving person.”

“Tallis, you say?” the Iron Bull asked.

“Yeah, you know her?”

“Do you think I know every Ben-Hassrath agent in the south?”

“Actually? Yes,” Thule told him.

The Qunari grunted and looked at his cards, but there was a thoughtful look on his face that suggested to Alistair that he did indeed know Tallis … and didn’t like her much.

Josephine was collecting the cards, ready to deal again. Alistair really didn’t want to play anymore—but he wanted to be near Lilias, and he was afraid that if he asked her to leave with him, she wouldn’t, and he was certain that he still didn’t know what to say to her. How could he, when he didn’t even really know who he was? He knew how he felt about her, but not what he could offer her going forward, and he didn’t want to promise her things he couldn’t deliver. So he picked up his cards, and he continued to pretend to play while really all he was doing was watching her over the edges of the pasteboard.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen had found the evening far more enjoyable than he’d imagined. With the exception of Cassandra, Cole, and Alistair, everyone was a solid to exceptional player—although the Inquisitor and Hawke both seemed somewhat distracted by their respective paramours—and Cullen had been forced to play at his best all night. He always liked a challenge, and a chance to sharpen his wits and his skills.

Josephine raked in another pot, her eyes shining and her cheeks becomingly flushed with a mixture of wine and winnings. She had a healthy pile in front of her. “And the dealer takes everything! It seems I win again.” 

“It seems,” the Iron Bull echoed sarcastically. “It’s almost as though you knew what was in everyone else’s hand.”

“Why, you wouldn’t be accusing our esteemed ambassador of cheating, would you?” Dorian asked. He smiled at Josephine. “Most certainly she wouldn’t do any such thing.”

“Most certainly not,” she agreed, her eyes wide and innocent. “Why cheat when one can rely on superior skill?”

The Iron Bull snorted at that, shuffling with surprising dexterity, given the size of his hands relative to the size of the cards.

“Deal again, Bull,” Cullen said suddenly, surprising himself as much as anyone else at the table. He nodded at Josephine, smiling triumphantly. “I believe I have figured out your tells, Lady Ambassador.”

She sat up straighter, her smile widening and her eyes twinkling even more brightly than they had been. “Impossible, Commander. Everyone knows a lady has no tells.”

“Sure. Just good luck,” the Iron Bull jeered, dealing out another hand.

“Of course.” Cullen was feeling supremely confident. A voice whispered in the back of his head that perhaps that had as much to do with the ale as his own rediscovered skill at cards, but he ignored it willfully, determined to enjoy himself. “Let us see if your good fortune lasts one more hand.”

Josephine picked up her cards. “The stakes will be very high, Commander—for you. As you can see, I have far more coin to bet with than you do.”

Solemnly, he unwrapped his fur-lined cape and laid it on the table.

The table went utterly silent. The Inquisitor had been leaning back, cheeks flushed, as Cassandra whispered into his ear—at least, Cullen wanted to believe she was whispering—but now he sat forward, eyes on Cullen. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“Absolutely.” That same voice was telling Cullen he was making a terrible mistake, but he shushed it with another swallow of ale.

“Commander, what a delightful side to you. Why did I never know this was there before?” Dorian asked.

“No one did,” Hawke replied. She frowned at Cullen warningly, but he ignored her, too.

“I don’t intend to lose any more coin to Josephine, but this I have to see,” Thule said, folding his arms on the table.

“It comes off,” Cole said in disbelief, staring at the cape. “I never knew it came off.”

The Iron Bull laughed. “Me, neither, kid.”

Cullen caught Josephine’s eye with a challenging look, which she met with one of her own, and they began to play.

Somewhere along the way, when he was peeling off his shirt to Dorian’s wolf whistle and Hawke’s appreciative eyes and Alistair’s sullen frown, Cullen thought perhaps this had been a poor choice on his part. But it was much too late. His honor depended on him beating Josephine in at least one hand, and he couldn’t quit until he did … vanishingly small as the chance of that seemed to be.

It was the ale that talked him into betting his smallclothes and his socks on one last desperate hand, but he believed it was also the impish whisper of the ale that convinced him to play his final trump one trick too soon, as well, and at last he sat, utterly defeated, with nothing left to bet with, while Josephine leaned back behind the pile of his clothes and armor looking supremely pleased with herself.

Varric chuckled, and Cullen glared at him. “Not a word, dwarf.”

“Curly, Curly, Curly … What is there to say? If only I had a painter here—that picture would be worth a million words.”

“Don’t say we didn’t warn you,” Thule told him. The Inquisitor got to his feet, extending a hand to Cassandra, who took it. She shook her head at Cullen, looking faintly exasperated with him. He supposed he didn’t blame her. When the ale wore off, he imagined he’d be rather exasperated with himself.

Josephine got to her feet, raking in her winnings, although she kindly left Cullen’s clothes in the neat pile that he had placed them in. “Never bet against an Antivan, Commander,” she told him.

“Truer words have rarely been spoken,” Alistair agreed with a groan. He stood up, also. “If you don’t mind, I’ll say good-night. I don't need to watch Cullen’s walk of shame back to his office.”

Dorian raised his wineglass. “Well, I do!”

The Iron Bull settled back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, and Hawke grinned and leaned forward. Cullen closed his eyes and groaned, wondering what he had been thinking. Oh, that damned ale and the trouble it got a person into. He remembered now, somewhat too late, why he usually avoided it. 

He pulled the pile of his clothes toward him, using them to hide his most vulnerable parts, and hastened from the room, glad that he knew the back way up the stairs to the abandoned room at the top of the building, where he could hastily pull on enough of his clothes to avoid being seen by the guards in all his nakedness.

The only consolation was that Dagna had not been there to see his shame … although no doubt she would hear about it. As would the rest of the Inquisition. He groaned aloud. Maybe he could just stay in his office until Corypheus had been defeated …


	55. Want

Varric headed back to his room feeling very pleased with himself. The night had been a success, and the story of Curly having to streak naked from the room was one he knew he would be telling for years to come, anytime anyone said the Inquisition was some kind of high and mighty holy organization, too busy to be human. It would have been better if it had been Stones, but he knew a few stories about the Inquisitor already, and Curly needed to bend a little. 

Yes, it had been a very successful night, he thought, and his feeling of well-being lasted until he touched his door handle and the door swung open easily, as though it had never been locked. Since he was entirely certain that it had been locked, he felt a sense of alarm that dropped his heart right into his boots. Anyone else might have imagined a burglar, but the only thing he had of value to be stolen was already long gone, and the person who had taken it was by far the most likely candidate to have broken into his room.

Knowing that, he took a moment, standing there in the hall, to try to collect his wits and decide what he was going to say, but it was useless. Anything there was to say either had already been said or would fall on deaf ears … or would require a lot more firmness than he had ever managed to muster, with her or with anyone.

So he stepped inside, and he closed the door, and he tried not to look at the very beautiful, very naked dwarf in his bed.

“There you are,” Bianca said huskily. “I expected you hours ago. I was tempted to start without you.”

“I can’t do this,” Varric told her, keeping his eyes firmly trained on the toes of his boots. Scuffed, he noticed. Damn that Stones, he really had ruined Varric’s boots.

“I know that’s not true. You’ve done it before. Very successfully,” she added, making a little moan as she stretched her body and arched her back.

“You can’t just walk in here and assume that everything’s back to normal. People died because of what you did, Bianca.”

“I couldn’t have known that! How could I have known some Grey Warden mage was Corypheus in disguise? By the fucking Stone, Varric, I didn’t even know who Corypheus was.”

“Of course you did! I told you all about him, how Hawke and I got trapped in that ruined tower in the Vimmarks and had to fight our way through.”

Bianca waved a hand airily. “I can’t keep all your stories straight, Varric. Honestly, they go in one ear and out the other.”

The words sent a chill through him. “In one ear and out the other?”

She smiled, the one he usually couldn’t resist. “How can I concentrate on your stories when I know what other things you can do with your mouth?”

But Varric was cut to the heart. “I am my stories, Bianca. If you can’t listen to them, if you think they’re so unimportant that you don’t even pay attention, then what are you doing here?”

“I love you.”

It was too little, too late. “I don’t know what, or who, you think you love, but it isn’t me.”

“You love me, too, Varric. You know you do.”

“I used to know that. I’m …” Even now, he couldn’t cut things off as sharply as they needed to be. “I’m not sure what I feel anymore. You—you get a nice night’s sleep. I’ll expect you to be gone in the morning.”

He pulled the door closed behind him and leaned against it, his heart pounding as if he had just run a mile—when what he had really done was much, much harder.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Blackwall sat up with a start, gathering his blankets around him, staring into the darkness and listening for the small sound that had caught his ear.

Horses snoring, one stamping its foot, the voices of the guards above on the battlements exchanging greetings … There. A whisper of movement that was not part of the usual sounds of Skyhold at night.

He got to his feet, dropping the blankets, standing there in loose tunic and sleep pants. He’d brawled plenty in his time, though, and, prepared, felt himself to be a reasonable match for anything that came at him.

Then, in the dim light through the haymow window, he saw his intruder and his heart quailed within him, because he most certainly was not a match for the small but indomitable figure with the red-gold hair who stood in front of him. “Why are you here?” he asked her. He was unable to keep the huskiness out of his voice or stop his heart from pounding at the idea of what she must mean by coming here at night to the hayloft where he slept—but he couldn’t let her know how much he wanted her here, not and expect her to go.

“I came for you.” Her tone brooked no argument.

“You— I— We can’t.”

Harding lifted her chin. “No one tells me what I can or can’t do.”

“Except the Inquisitor.”

“You’d be surprised.”

It was true—the Inquisition put a lot of faith in Harding. More often than not, she and her advance team were out there alone, the first face of the Inquisition people saw. The Inquisitor and his advisors trusted her judgment and her abilities. They rarely gave her orders, and often took her advice. But that didn’t change the fact that this was a very bad idea. “You have to go.”

“I told you what was going to happen when I came back.”

“You said you would hunt me if I left,” Blackwall reminded her. “I’m still here.”

She shrugged. “I’m hunting you anyway.”

“And if I refuse to be pinned to the ground like a runaway hare?”

“Blackwall,” Harding said softly, coming closer to him.

“Rainier.”

“Thom.”

He shivered, hearing his name on her lips. It had been a long time.

“Thom, I’m about to leave for the Arbor Wilds. We’re going after Corypheus, the whole army, very soon. None of us know if we’re coming back.”

He hadn’t heard of this plan, but that didn’t surprise him. The Inquisitor despised him for what he’d done—rightfully so—and no longer considered him part of the team.

“Before I go, I— I want …”

Blackwall had never heard Harding at a loss for words before. “What do you want?” he asked, forgetting himself in his concern for her, taking a step towards her that he didn’t even notice, and gently lifting her chin with one hand.

“I want you. I want— I’ve never—“

Maker’s blood. He blanched at what she was telling him, even as he knew himself to be trapped, utterly and completely. That this woman who had never been touched by a man before needed him badly enough to come to him in the dark of night, that she was trusting him to see her through the most precious of encounters—To refuse would be to break her heart, in a different way than it was already going to be broken. He couldn’t bear to do that. “It’ll hurt,” he told her.

He didn’t need light to see the one that shone in her green eyes. “I know it. I trust you.”

When was the last time someone had said that to him? He couldn’t recall. Wordlessly, he led her to the pallet where he slept. She sank onto it, lying on her back, lifting her arms for them, and knowing himself to be utterly lost, he went into them.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
When Leliana rose from her prayers, Nathaniel was sitting in his accustomed seat, reading her mail. As usual, she hadn’t heard him mount the stairs. 

“Vivienne wants to see you,” he told her as she approached the table. He didn’t look up from his parchment. “Something about a task the Inquisitor performed for her, and its consequences.”

“Vivienne wants me to support her in a bid to be Divine.”

“I know you think that, but I can’t imagine why. Cassandra seems no longer to be a candidate—at least, the Inquisitor would eat his heart out if she left him for the Sunburst Throne—but you’ve got your ambitions and your intentions and nothing to keep you from them. And Vivienne’s a mage.”

He was right, of course, but it stung that he considered her to have nothing. Even if she would have vehemently disagreed with anyone, except possibly Josie, who suggested that there might be something here between them. “She thinks her political power is enough to overcome that handicap.”

Nathaniel did look up, at that. “And you? How is she planning to overcome you?”

She held his gaze pointedly.

“Ah.” He raised an eyebrow. “And you think she has a point?”

“Of course not! I don’t even know why you’re still here. Every day I expect to be told you’ve left for Weisshaupt.”

Nathaniel put the parchment down on her desk. “No, you don’t.”

“Why in the Void not?” she asked him. “What are you skulking around here for?”

To her surprise, he gave her the honest answer rather than the flippant, deflecting one. “Because I can’t bear the thought of going to Weisshaupt. The best I can expect is an interrogation regarding what happened here and why I survived when the others didn’t. More likely, they’ll either throw me in a dungeon and toss away the key, or have me executed. The Wardens at Weisshaupt are widely known to have no sense of humor whatsoever.”

Leliana had heard the same thing, and she didn’t envy him the journey. Still … “You’ll have to go eventually.”

He smiled. “So does Blackwall, but you don’t see him hurrying off.”

“He’s waiting until we defeat Corypheus.”

“He’s waiting because he can’t bear to leave Harding.”

“Are you saying you’re still here because you can’t bear to leave me?” It was supposed to come out tart and mocking, but her voice betrayed her, wavering and softening as though she had never trained as a bard.

Nathaniel got to his feet and came toward her, and Leliana forgot entirely to back away from him, her gaze caught in his dark eyes, which were burning with the same heat that had suddenly risen in her. “Is that what you want me to say?”

“No.” But it was a soft breath of a word, lacking conviction, and neither of them paid attention to it.

“Kiss me, Leliana.”

He could have kissed her, but he wasn’t going to. Instead he was standing there, waiting for her to take the step, to acknowledge what she felt. Or to acknowledge _that_ she felt, at least. 

It would have been so much easier if he had taken the step, so that she could tell herself she was simply yielding to his passion, going along with him out of curiosity. But he wanted her to come to him, and if she did, she couldn’t pretend that it was for any reason other than because she wanted to.

They looked at each other, each waiting, each telling the other that they weren’t to be moved.

Leliana imagined herself turning away, sitting down at her desk, listening in vain for his soundless footfalls on the stairs as he left. That would be the strong thing to do, the Left Hand’s thing to do. But she wasn’t the Left Hand anymore. She wasn’t even Sister Nightingale, much as she pretended nothing had changed. And one thing hadn’t—it was still a dark, damaged Grey Warden who stood before her. But unlike Leyden, unlike Bethany, Nathaniel knew who he was, and he didn’t want to die. What would it be like, to make love with someone knowing that they wanted more than simply a farewell?

She decided to find out, and let who she was be tomorrow’s problem. Taking the step that would put her in front of him, she curved her hand around the back of his neck and kissed him.

Nathaniel growled with relief and appreciation in the back of his throat, his hands coming up to cup her face. Then he pulled away. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“My room. I intend to take my time, and I don’t want to be interrupted by your scouts all night long.”

Leliana smiled. “I believe I like the sound of that.”


	56. The Best a Man Could Offer

Pursuant to a note he had received earlier in the afternoon, Cullen met Dagna on the battlements after dinner. She had changed from her leather apron and working gear to a plain but pretty dress, and her red hair was down, draped softly over her shoulders. Cullen had no choice but to recognize this for what it was, and he felt a chill in his blood that was only exacerbated by the contrasting pounding of his heart. He couldn’t deny a curiosity to know where this might lead … but he was terrified of what it could mean, at the same time. And neither emotion was fair to Dagna, who deserved only the best a man could offer and was instead making her overtures to a man who had lost the best of himself long ago.

“Dagna—“ 

“No, let me,” she said. Her fingers were twisting nervously together. “I … I need to tell you—“

“I know. I already know. You don’t have to—“

Dagna cut him off again, firmly. “Yes. I do.” When he would have protested once more, she shook her head. “You can’t protect me from this, Cullen. If you ever could have … it’s too late now. I love you.”

“You can’t!” he said instantly, the words torn from him.

“I do. I have, for a long time.”

“I am not fit to be loved, Dagna, certainly not by someone as … innocent as you.”

“I’m less innocent than you might think. I grew up in the forge. I did my training at Circles all over Thedas. I’ve seen as much of what happens between mages and Templars as anyone; I’m no stranger to the ways of the world. And I have never met anyone as … as honorable and upright as you. Or anyone who needed to be loved as badly.”

Did he need badly to be loved? He had never thought so. Rather he had always thought he had spoiled himself for anyone’s love long ago. Or the demons had spoiled him, or Leyden had; however it had happened, the damage was done.

Dagna was looking at him softly. “You always sell yourself so short.”

“Perhaps you see more in me than I deserve.”

“Not possible.”

He was moved despite himself by the softness in her voice. “You are very certain.”

“I have been for a long time. Cullen, if you could only see yourself the way I see you.”

“I see myself quite clearly. Too clearly to allow you to think I am something I’m not.”

“You forget,” Dagna said tartly, “that I have known you for a long time. I’ve sat and talked with you in the depths of your darkest hours, remember? When you couldn’t sleep and you would walk the halls of Kinloch Hold and that only made it worse? And then I would take your hand and sit you down and brew you some of my horrible tea and talk to you while you drank it.”

Cullen smiled involuntarily. It really was awful tea.

Dagna smiled, too. “You do remember.”

“Of course. Who could forget the worst cup of tea they’d ever tasted?” 

A warmth arced between them as they shared the memory, and Cullen moved toward her without thinking. Dagna tilted her head back, her lips parting, her eyes shining, and he thought of how nice it would be to kiss her.

But he daren’t, he reminded himself, stepping away again. “You know as much about me as there is to know,” he agreed. “Too much to imagine I could be a good—partner.”

“If you could be one to anyone, it would be me,” Dagna said, and he saw how hard it was for her to get the words out, how afraid she was of his reaction.

“I—to be honest, I hadn’t thought of you in quite that way until just recently.” Her eyes shone brighter at the revelation that he had even begun to think of her that way, and he hurried hastily on lest she get the wrong idea. “But I—haven’t thought of _myself_ that way since … since …”

“The demons.”

He nodded. “After what they did, I cannot … You’ll forgive me, Dagna, please? Because I can’t bear to hurt you, and if I—if we—you would be hurt, one way or the other, despite my best attempts. I—I’m sorry.” Cullen turned on his heel and practically ran from her, afraid to stay there longer lest he do or say something one of them would regret later.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“Solas?” Merrill asked sleepily. She was lying on the floor of his atrium looking up at the mural on the wall, seeing things in it that probably weren’t there. She blinked, her eyelids heavy. “Why won’t you meet me in the Fade? You took the Inquisitor there.”

“It was not an easy feat.”

“Yes, but he’s a dwarf. I’m one of the People.”

Solas marked something on a piece of parchment and looked down at her. “That just means your dreams are harder to control.”

“Are they? Were they like that before?”

He looked at her sharply. “Before what?”

“Uthenera.”

“How should I know?”

“Because of your dreaming,” she said. Something in his tone penetrated the sleepiness in her, and she pushed herself up on one elbow. “You must have seen things. Wonderful things.”

“I have.”

“Then tell me. All our stories seem to begin at Halamshiral—the ones about real things, anyway.” 

He smiled at her. “Even those are more wishes than stories. And Halamshiral was merely a fumbling attempt to recreate a land that had already been forgotten, even then.” He sighed. “Elvhenan was the empire, and Arlathan its greatest city, a place of magic and beauty, lost to time.”

Merrill lay back, letting his voice wash over her, her mind painting pictures of what it must have been like—elegant ladies and mysterious men, dressed in flowing robes, all of them as careful and soothing and calm as Solas. “Did they live in the trees?” she asked. “Or in aravels?”

“Mm. Imagine instead spires of crystal twining through the branches, palaces floating among the clouds.” 

“How could they float?”

“Magic,” he whispered.

Merrill smiled. “Of course.”

“And dwelling in them, beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing.”

For Merrill, it often felt that it was. “Can you imagine what it must be like not to have that?”

“No,” he said, his voice hard and sad at the same time. “I cannot.”

“Was the magic used by the elves then different than what we have now?”

“No … and yes. Magic is magic, just as water is water, but it can be used in different ways.”

Merrill could imagine magic flowing like water, like a crystalline stream you could drink from. “Our magic is more practical than the humans’,” she observed. “And they continue to frown on blood magic.”

“Superstition. Magic is magic; it matters only how it is used.”

“A means to an end. Yes.” Although she remembered the cave, and the demon, and Keeper Marethari, and she shivered. “Did they use blood magic to increase their lifespan?”

“No, it was simply a part of being at that time. The subtle beauty of their magic came from their nature, it didn’t create it.”

“Ah.” Merrill felt a deep sadness that she would never be able to see those elves.

“Some spells took years to cast,” Solas said softly. “Echoes would linger for centuries, harmonizing with new magic in an unending symphony.”

“Oh, it sounds lovely. Can you still hear it now?”

“There are some places, yes. But very few.”

“Solas?” she asked, without opening her eyes. “Can I hear the music someday?”

She felt the warmth of his body as he knelt next to her and bent over her, and she opened her eyes to see his face very close to hers, his eyes clear and open as they looked into hers. “Yes, Merrill. Someday, I promise, I will take you where the music still echoes.” He sealed his promise with a kiss on her forehead. The touch of his lips on her skin sent a shiver through Merrill, and she sighed contentedly.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule came around the post at the top of the stairs in his quarters and stopped short. “Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise.”

“Is it?” Cassandra stretched languidly. She was naked on his bed, and Thule was cursing his suddenly clumsy fingers as he hastily tried to become equally naked.

“How long have you been here?”

She smiled. “I saw you caught up with Bann Maynard, and I slipped upstairs.”

“If I had only known, I’d have cut off his inane bleating much sooner. Much sooner,” he added with a groan, as Cassandra drew up one leg so that he could see all the secrets of her body. He knew them very well by now, which only added to his enjoyment. 

“Well, you’re here now.”

“So I am.” He climbed onto the bed, running his fingers up her leg. “You are so beautiful.”

Her reply was wordless as his tongue followed the trail his fingers had traced. He teased her with lips and tongue until she was as ready for him as he had been for her from the moment he saw her there sprawled naked on his bed like every fantasy he’d had for months come to life—which was, in fact, exactly what she was.

“Cassandra,” he whispered, unable to stop himself from expressing the wonder he felt.

“Mm? Oh, Maker’s blood, do not stop!” she commanded.

He chuckled, teasing her again with just the tip of his tongue dancing on the spot that made her writhe so delightfully. He couldn’t hold himself back any further. Climbing atop her, reveling in the feel of her smooth, supple skin beneath his, he pressed himself deep inside her, watching her grey eyes flutter closed as he seated himself fully. “Ah, Cassandra, how you make me feel.”

“Thule,” she moaned, arching beneath him. It was a bit awkward, this position, given the height difference, but he was learning how to manage it. “Thule, lover, yes!”

He loved it when she called his name, and the way she said ‘lover’ was possibly the most erotic thing he had ever heard. He held himself still for a long moment until she said it again, begging now, and then moved, slowly, letting the pleasure build again. But he was as aroused as she, and it wasn’t long before they were both moving together, determinedly climbing toward the ultimate goal.

When it was over, they lay together, tightly in each other’s arms. “Cassandra. Whatever happens—the Arbor Wilds, Corypheus … anything that might lie ahead was worth it for this.”

“You are a foolish, foolish man.” He nuzzled her neck, smiling at her attempt at tartness even while her voice was still hoarse and breathless from shouting at the moment of her completion. “But I must be foolish, as well, because I feel the same.”

Thule smiled even wider, and fell asleep wrapped in her arms.


	57. Vivienne

Leliana folded the note on the heavy, expensive paper with a sigh. The last thing she wanted was this meeting Vivienne seemed so intent on, but the mage’s tone, and her barrage of notes, were insistent … and Leliana had to admit to a certain amount of curiosity. At Vivienne’s request, she had had Charter procure the heart of a snowy wyvern, by Charter’s account not an easy task, and messy to boot, and once it had been delivered, Vivienne had left for Orlais.

She had returned surprisingly quickly, and had isolated herself even more than she usually did. None of Leliana’s attempts had managed to find out what Vivienne had done with the heart or where she had gone. Unusual behavior for the mage, to be sure.

Allowing her curiosity to drag her out of the Rookery, Leliana presented herself at Vivienne’s door.

When the mage answered, she seemed to have been … crying, Leliana realized with some surprise.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for asking me. Is there—is there anything you need?” Leliana asked hesitantly.

Vivienne shook her head. “No. Not now. Not … not anymore.” She led Leliana into her sitting room, which was in remarkable disarray. The mage sank onto her sofa, picked up a glass of sherry, and tossed it off like it was water.

“Vivienne, is there something wrong?”

After a moment, the mage nodded. “You were curious about the wyvern’s heart.”

“I was.” She had been suspicious, too, Leliana had to admit. She had briefly considered substituting the heart of an ordinary wyvern, not sure if she trusted Vivienne’s intentions, but in the end had played it straight, sure that the mage would have known the difference.

“It was a … potion.”

Ah. The alchemical notes she had found when she went through Vivienne’s papers, Leliana recognized. She felt a flash of satisfaction at having that particular mystery explained to her.

“For restoring to my Bastien some of his vigor.” The mage held up a scroll that had evidently come from a raven. Leliana remembered having the note delivered to her earlier in the day. “It failed, and the news has just come …” She pressed her lips together as a spasm of pain crossed her face, working to keep her emotions under control. “He died early this morning.”

“Oh. Oh, Vivienne, I am so very sorry.”

The mage nodded heavily. “Thank you.”

This was unexpected. Everyone know about Bastien and Vivienne, of course, but it had never occurred to Leliana to consider it a love match of the depth that Vivienne appeared to feel. Bastien had had a certain charm, she remembered, but overall had been a rather forgettable type, certainly not someone Leliana would have imagined creating such devotion in the heart of such a charismatic and beautiful woman as Vivienne.

“He … told me it would be all right. But—how can it be? He was … It was all for him. The power, the Game, everything. He taught me everything, made me who I am. Without him …”

Leliana listened in silence, knowing that the mage would regret having been so open when she came back to herself. 

“I have nothing now,” Vivienne whispered to herself.

She didn’t even notice when Leliana slipped out of the room, closing the door carefully behind her. 

Leliana found the Inquisitor in the tavern and let him know that Vivienne might need a dose of his charm and good cheer, and then she betook herself to the Rookery, writing a note and sending off a raven in the direction of Orlais. Perhaps Vivienne would not thank her for interfering, but the part of her that had been Sister Leliana, one of the Maker’s servants, could not see a soul in pain without wanting to do what she could to help.

Later, she found a small room off a little-used corridor and slipped inside, finding Nathaniel awake and waiting for her. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked between frantic kisses.

But Leliana couldn’t—wouldn’t—articulate to him, or to herself, the need that had brought her here.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule gave Vivienne a day to collect herself, then sent a note up to her rooms asking for an appointment. He didn’t want to just descend on her without some forewarning.

The note was returned unopened by the young page who had taken it up, and Thule decided he was just going to take the bull by the horns and go up there himself. While he wasn’t overwhelmingly fond of Vivienne, there was no question she had been an asset to the Inquisition, and he didn’t like knowing that one of his people was sinking into despair under his very nose.

She didn’t respond to his knock, either, so he went right in, finding her sitting huddled on the end of her sofa, a nearly empty bottle of sherry on the table.

Looking up at him, she met his eyes, and he was shocked at the mute misery he saw there. Of course, if Cassandra … died, would he respond any better? He didn’t even want to think about it. Life without Cassandra would be unsupportable. It hadn’t occurred to him to imagine Vivienne as having been so much in love, but most evidently she had been, and his heart went out to her.

“Bastien is dead,” she said to him.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I can hardly believe …”

“I know,” he said again, sinking down on the settee next to her. “Can you tell me about him?”

“Can I—?” She blinked, trying to pull herself together. “He was …” She searched for words and couldn’t find them, shaking her head.

“Tell me how you met,” Thule said gently.

“Ah.” It was little more than a breath as she looked up and out the window, her mind far away and long ago. “The Wintersend ball. My first visit to the Imperial Palace.” A nostalgic smile touched her face, some of the dullness clearing from her eyes at the memory. 

“How did a mage of the Circle end up at a ball in the palace?”

“A dozen of us had been sent there—entertainment for the nobility. Elegant pets, my dear,” she said, sounding more like herself.

“How old were you?”

“In body? Old enough. In experience? A newborn babe. I was in awe of everyone and everything. And then, across the room … our eyes met. Yes. Bastien, my love.” Vivienne’s eyes filled with tears.

“Love at first sight?” It was hard to believe of the cool, self-possessed woman Thule had thought he knew, but certainly she gave every evidence that it was true.

She nodded. “He spent the entire ball at my side, telling me about the Game and the nobility and … everything I needed to know.” A broader smile lit her face now, and she even gave a little chuckle. “The Dowager tried to have him killed for slighting her, but he didn’t care.”

“A mage and a noble? And the Templars didn’t put a stop to it?”

“Oh, no, my dear, you misunderstand. In the days before Kirkwall, it was expected. The nobility didn’t fear magic. Instead we were a fashion accessory, a feather in the cap. Everyone had one. That was why we had been brought to the ball in the first place. It was … a more innocent time, I suppose.” She shook her head, her face crumpling. “And now he’s gone, and I …”

“What of his family? Were you close with them?” Thule asked, glad that he had come armed with a piece of information from Leliana. 

Vivienne nodded, pulling herself together as she thought about the question. “His son Laurent and I would conspire together to procure Bastien exotic treats, delicacies to tempt his appetite as his health failed. His sister … she didn’t like that I left, but she understood that my position here reflected well on the whole family.”

“Do you need to leave for services? You’re free to take as much time as you need.”

“No. The services will take some time to arrange. In Orlais, these things are done elaborately, and cannot be rushed.”

“Perhaps you can discuss it with Bastien’s sister and his son. I’m told they have asked to come and visit.” He waited for her response, and was pleased when she brightened somewhat.

“Have they? How kind. I will look forward to showing them the Inquisition.”

“And we will look forward to meeting them,” Thule assured her. He got to his feet, feeling that he had done as much as he could for the moment, glad to see her face so much more animated than it had been when he came in.

“Inquisitor?”

“Yes?”

“About Cassandra. I … I can see how you dote upon her.”

He nodded. He did dote on her, and wasn’t surprised it was obvious.

“You make a fetching couple.” Her eyes twinkled briefly. “Or you would, if Cassandra ever smiled.”

“I’ll work on it.”

“You should. You never know when …” She shook herself, getting to her feet and clearing her throat. “Life takes unexpected turns, Inquisitor. Be prepared.”

He thanked her for the thought and left the room, feeling the heavy foreboding weight of her words on his shoulders the rest of the day.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Alistair was sitting at a table in the main keep, hoping that Lilias would come by so he had an excuse to jump up and say “Fancy meeting you here” and then hope to stammer through some of the words he kept practicing in his mirror every night, and cursing his own damnable inability to act. When would he be through being so wishy-washy, anyway?

The mage Vivienne stopped before his table with two very well-dressed people—clearly Orlesians. No one else dressed quite like an Orlesian noble. 

“I expected ruins,” the woman said in a heavy, almost affected-sounding, accent.

“Oh, they were,” Vivienne assured her. “As you can see, the Inquisition has been busy. Lady Montilyet has done wonders. She’s an Antivan, of course, but very skilled.”

The man was looking around him with eager, almost jerky movements. He turned to Vivienne. “Would it be possible to see the Herald before we have to return to Ghislain?”

Vivienne frowned faintly. “He should be present—if not now, then shortly.” Her eyes lit on Alistair, and despite his best attempt to shrink into his seat and become too small to see, she said, “But you may meet His Majesty, King Alistair of Ferelden.”

Even as Alistair stood, he could see in the bored eyes behind the Orlesian man’s mask that he seemed a poor substitute for the Inquisitor. He didn’t blame the man; he was a poor substitute. “A pleasure,” he said.

“Indeed.”

While the man kept looking for the Inquisitor, the woman fastened her eyes on Alistair’s broad chest with a look he was entirely too familiar with from aging noblewomen, and cooed, “What brings you here, Your Majesty?”

“I’ve been assisting the Inquisitor. Corypheus is a threat that faces all of us, and ...”

He trailed off as Vivienne trilled, “Inquisitor!” No one had been paying attention to what he was saying anyway.

Thule approached, that open, cheerful, easy smile on his face. Alistair bitterly envied the dwarf his comfortableness. Maybe he gave lessons.

“Allow me to present Inquisitor Cadash,” Vivienne said. “This is Bastien’s sister, the Grand Cleric Marcelline, and his son, Duke Laurent of the Council of Heralds.”

The Orlesian man bent in a sweeping bow, which Alistair noticed without bitterness. After all, no one had ever accused him of being marked by Andraste. And, after all, perhaps he ought to have known he was being introduced to a member of the Council of Heralds. “Your Worship, you do us great honor,” Duke Laurent said, with every impression of sincerity.

“Madame de Fer has told us of the many great trials you have faced together,” Grand Cleric Marcelline said. “It all sounds most thrilling.”

“Oh, very much so,” Thule assured her. He glanced at Alistair, his blue eyes twinkling, and Alistair couldn’t help but imagine the Grand Cleric in the Western Approach, camping amidst the sand and heat. He had to stifle a laughing fit and pretend to be coughing. Meanwhile, Thule was grinning like the cat that caught the canary, the imp.

“My dears, perhaps we could adjourn to the chapel in a few moments’ time? I would like to speak with the Inquisitor briefly,” Vivienne said.

Both the Orlesians made exaggerated bows to the Inquisitor and nods to Alistair and withdrew. Alistair thought he should go, perhaps, as well, but Thule stepped a little closer to him in a subtle suggestion to stay.

“This has been quite the triumph, my dear,” Vivienne said when they were out of earshot. “They just adore you.”

“They seem very … friendly,” Thule said.

“Do thank Leliana for me. She wouldn’t say as much, but I know she set this in motion.”

“Of course.”

“Laurent is a dear. He is also new to a seat of great power in the Empire. It is to our benefit to keep him on our side. And Marcelline is one of the strongest voices among the Grand Clerics.”

Alistair wondered if that voice would be raised on Vivienne’s behalf in the mage’s rumored bid to become the Divine. He doubted that would succeed—Thedas simply wasn’t ready for a mage in that position—but it would be interesting to see how far it got.

“I … owe you,” Vivienne said, more awkwardly than was her wont. “I won’t forget it.”

Thule nodded as she excused herself to return to her guests.

“What was all that about?” Alistair asked.

“A personal matter, but I wonder if it won’t have far-reaching consequences,” the Inquisitor said thoughtfully. “We may have just done a very good turn for Thedas, my friend. What do you say to an ale to celebrate?”

Perhaps Lilias would be in the tavern and he could pretend to run into her accidentally there, Alistair thought optimistically. “Lead on.”


	58. Conventional Methods

Morrigan caught up with Thule as he was on his way to the War Room. It was a chilly afternoon, spitting rain here and there, but Morrigan wore nothing that indicated she cared in the least about the weather—and the expanse of fine white skin exposed by her brief garment showed no trace of gooseflesh. It must be nice to be impervious to all things, Thule thought. Or perhaps it wasn’t so nice. Morrigan was here alone, after all, no friends, no lovers, no family. He hoped for her sake that she would always be enough for herself.

“Inquisitor,” she said insistently, keeping stride with him easily as he hurried toward the main keep, “when do we leave for the Arbor Wilds? We cannot afford to continue to delay. Corypheus will not flounder there forever—eventually he will find the—“ She caught herself as they entered the keep, bustling with people, and lowered her voice slightly. “What he is looking for.”

“Since you’re so curious, why don’t you join us for the meeting? Like I could stop you,” he added under his breath. He wasn’t fond of the way Morrigan barged into the War Room meetings as though she belonged there. Even Cassandra had bowed out of them when they arrived at Skyhold, not wanting to appear as though she was trying to push herself into a place she had chosen not to take. Much to Thule’s chagrin, since he welcomed every moment he could spend with her. But Morrigan had no such scruples, and when it had been suggested to her that certain aspects of the Inquisition were really not her concern, she had pointed out that Celene had sent her, and did they really wish to annoy Orlais? Josephine had looked worried at that, Cullen had rolled his eyes and thrown up his hands, and Leliana had glared at the witch so hard Thule thought she might burn into Morrigan’s skin.

She hadn’t, of course, Morrigan ignoring her completely, and so Morrigan had stayed.

The others were waiting, heads bowed over the section of the War Table where their next sortie would be focused. 

“Everything ready?” Thule asked.

His three advisors exchanged looks.

He sighed. “I see. All right, lay it out for me, let’s see if we can find a way to work it out.”

“What is the delay?” Morrigan demanded sharply. “Every moment the three of you dither, Corypheus comes closer to the eluvian, closer to entering the Fade and walking there—and I promise you, he will not do so little damage as the Inquisitor and his party.” Her cold look down at Thule said she thought he had nevertheless done enough, and he wasn’t sure he could argue with her about that, even though being stuck physically in the Fade had not been his idea either time. As a dwarf, he could cheerfully have gone a whole lifetime without ever experiencing the Fade, had it not been for Corypheus.

Leliana straightened, frowning at Morrigan. “You are saying that with an eluvian, Corypheus could cross into the Fade in the flesh?”

“Indeed. As the Inquisitor can attest, these artifacts still work if one knows how to use them.”

“And how does Corypheus know that?” Cullen demanded.

“I … do not know,” Morrigan admitted reluctantly. “But the mark on the Inquisitor’s hand proves that he has at least a rudimentary knowledge—and often that is more than enough to do great harm.”

“What do you think will happen when he enters the Fade, then?”

Morrigan’s eyebrows lifted, and she cast one of her chilly smiles at Cullen. “He will gain his heart’s desire, of course, and take the powers of a god.”

Thule felt that was a rather vague answer—he felt it probably indicated Morrigan didn’t really know what Corypheus intended to do. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for that; he had far more experience with Corypheus and he didn’t know what Corypheus intended to do.

With genuine anger—or possibly just severe annoyance—darkening her tone, Morrigan added, “Or the lunatic will unleash forces that will tear the world apart. Given his bumbling to date, that is far more likely.”

“We don’t have to worry about this eluvian if Corypheus isn’t alive to use it,” Thule pointed out.

“Ah, Inquisitor. So scrappy.” The superiority and humor in Morrigan’s eyes as she looked down on him reminded Thule of Corypheus. He wished he could lock the two of them in a room together—he wasn’t sure which would come out victorious, but he gave Morrigan fairly decent odds. Certainly letting them go at each other had to be better for Thedas. He considered the prospect for a moment, enjoying the fantasy, before pulling himself back into reality. “Ending him thusly would be ideal … if you could manage it,” Morrigan continued. “But I think you have already found that killing Corypheus is more easily said than done.”

“Pardon me,” Josephine said with uncharacteristic meekness, “but … does this mean everything is lost unless we get to the eluvian before Corypheus does?”

There was a silence, none of the rest of them wanting to answer her question in the affirmative—and none of them able to lie convincingly about it, either.

“Corypheus has a head start, no matter how quickly our army moves,” Cullen said at last.

Thule sighed. Here they went again. Each advisor thought their own aspect was the most important, and they could never seem to see things from each other’s perspectives.

Next to him, Morrigan said sharply, “If you had moved on the Wilds immediately—“

“We weren’t ready,” Cullen said.

At the same time, Josephine pointed out, “We need to gather our allies before we march.”

“Well, haven’t you done that?” Cullen asked her.

“I have told them to be on the alert, but I did not have a date on which to tell them to move.”

“We certainly shouldn’t wait for them!” Leliana said. “We should send our spies ahead to the Arbor Wilds. I have a few in place on the edges, but it has proven a difficult place to infiltrate fully.”

“If you sent spies in force without the support of the army, you’d lose half of them!” Cullen exclaimed. 

“Then what do you recommend?” Josephine asked him sharply.

“Allow the armies to march, and let everyone follow.”

“That would take forever!” Leliana objected.

Josephine said, “And our allies will not want us to get ahead of them. They must feel they are with us.”

“Enough!” Thule waited until they all looked at him, sheepishly, like scolded children. “We cannot continue arguing amongst ourselves while Corypheus gets closer to his goal. I’ve let you take point on this so far, but now we do things my way.” He paused again until he had three nods. “All right, then.” Thule took a deep breath before speaking. He had gone over this in his head many times, and he thought it would work, but he was prepared for a flurry of argument. “Josephine, have our allies send scouts to meet us in the Wilds. Leliana, your fastest agents will join them. Together, there should be enough spies to stand against those of Corypheus’s forces they may run into and slow them down until Cullen’s soldiers and the allied armies can arrive.”

Before any of the others could speak, Morrigan chuckled at him pityingly.

Thule frowned at her. “Yes?”

“I was merely thinking, Inquisitor, that you have such confidence in these … conventional methods, but the Arbor Wilds are not so kind to visitors. Old elven magic lingers in those woods.”

Ever the diplomat, Josephine inclined her head politely toward Morrigan. “We would be remiss not to take advantage of your knowledge in these matters. Please, lend us your expertise.”

Even though Morrigan must have known Josephine was playing on her vanity, it was clear it had still worked enough to mollify her a bit. “’Tis why I came here, although it is good to see its value recognized.” She cast a sidelong glance at Leliana, who rolled her eyes and looked away.

Morrigan did not go on to offer any of her ‘expertise’, however—Thule was sure she intended to use it as leverage to ensure that she was brought along on the journey, and probably as a bit of a slap in the face to Leliana and a reminder of her superiority to Josephine. 

In the silence, Cullen cleared his throat. “Any further instructions, Inquisitor?”

“No. You know best how to mobilize your specific forces.” It occurred to Thule, however, that here in the moment before the chaos of mobilization, before they entered the Arbor Wilds to face down Corypheus for what he hoped would be the last time, he had some things he wanted to say to these people who had taken a mercenary thief and turned him into an Inquisitor. “We began as a handful of soldiers. Thanks to the three of you, we are now a force that can topple a self-proclaimed god.” He looked at each of them in turn, receiving and returning slow nods of respect. Clearing his throat, which was feeling a little choked all of a suddden, he said, “I could ask for no finer counsel, no better guidance. No … no truer friends.”

Josephine sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Leliana’s face held an unaccustomed softness that suited her. 

Cullen stood to attention, an acknowledgement of Thule as his superior officer that Thule was very touched by. “I speak for all of us when I answer: We could ask for no finer cause.”

Thule didn’t let the fact that Cullen spoke of the cause rather than the leader bother him. They had been forced to take him by the Anchor; they had molded him to the best of their ability. His success was their success.

Leliana looked down at the War Table, her gloved hand closing on a piece. “We will hound Corypheus in the Wilds before he can find the temple or this eluvian,” she promised.

Next to Thule, Morrigan muttered, “Finally.”

No one answered her, and privately he thought she was right. They had not hurried this as much as they should have. They had felt—he included—that Corypheus in the Arbor Wilds was far enough away that they had time for other things. Time for living. Well, that time was up.

The five of them dispersed from the War Room. Josephine was already scribbling as she sat down behind her desk. Leliana gave a subtle nod as she exited into the main keep. Three of her scouts appeared immediately and followed at her heels, all four of them moving quickly without seeming to hurry. Cullen started shouting for his lieutenants on his way toward his office, and was soon trailing a number of soldiers who were hastily noting down his barked orders.

Morrigan nodded down at Thule, looking supremely satisfied. “I have some preparations of my own to make, Inquisitor, but I am ready to leave when you are.”

“I’ll find you.”

“You will not need to.”

With that ominous promise, she slipped through the door into the gardens, leaving Thule to go looking for Cassandra.

She looked up from the piece of armor she was polishing as he came into her room above the blacksmith’s shop. Some of the decision must have shown in his face, because she nodded immediately, putting down her polishing cloth. “It is time.”

“Not right now, but … very soon.”

“Good. Let us get it over with.”

“Cassandra, if—if I—“

She came to him, stripping off her glove and putting her fingers over his mouth. “I will be with you. I am not leaving your side. There will be time to say … anything that might need to be said.”

He pulled her down so that he could kiss her, putting all of the things she wouldn’t let him say into that kiss.

Above his head, her hand reached out and pushed the door closed, before she drew him further into the room and responded to his feelings in kind.


	59. In the Midst of the Wilds

It was hot in the Arbor Wilds, hot enough to melt off a dwarf’s chest hair, Varric thought. Stones didn’t seem bothered by it, though, hurrying around checking on weapon stockpiles and trebuchets and generally acting Inquisitorial. He had come a long way from the thief trying to pick up loose valuables in the Haven Chantry, plotting his quick escape from the Inquisition’s clutches.

A heavily accented voice drew them both over to where Empress Celene and Ruffles stood together. “Inquisitor!”

“Your Majesty.” He bowed, and Celene inclined her head graciously.

“We are gladdened to see you.” She actually seemed it, too. 

Varric wondered with an inward smirk what Celene would think if she knew she was talking to a junior Carta lieutenant. Of course, given the popularity of spying in Thedas, she almost certainly did. Maybe she didn’t care. Maybe it made her think Stones was plucky. Or maybe she was used to having to consider upstarts her equals. After all, His Royal Majesty the King of Ferelden came from the stables, Varric thought sourly, glancing over to where Alistair stood with a set of Fereldan archers. And Varric heartily wished he had stayed there and not caused anyone any trouble. 

The Empress was still speaking, and he pulled his gaze away from Alistair to listen.

“This day will be recalled for ages,” she was saying. “We are privileged today to witness the fulfillment of the Inquisition’s purpose.”

Subtle, Varric thought. She was making the expectations of Orlais pretty plain—the Inquisition had her favor only as long as Corypheus remained a threat. So much for appreciating that they had saved her life. Apparently an Empress’s gratitude only remained until the object of that gratitude maintained a standing army along her borders once its approved task was completed.

“We certainly hope to fulfill our first and most important mandate today, Your Majesty,” Stones agreed, “but there are other ills beyond the threat of Corypheus that the Inquisition may be called upon to address.” He held her gaze, his frank blue eyes never wavering from her face.

Ruffles winced ever so slightly, but Varric applauded his friend’s directness. Once you knuckled under once, you stayed under. Stones had undoubtedly learned that in the Carta.

Celene gave a faint smile, acknowledging the riposte. “We will note those ills with great interest, some day when there is more time to speak of them. Until that day, know that the forces of Orlais are with you.” In a more earnest tone, she added, “Men and women of faith serve you today. Their favor is no less than our own, their service no less dear. Have a care for my people, Inquisitor.”

“As though they were my own, Your Majesty,” Stones assured her.

“Thank you, Inquisitor. With Orlais at your side, we will see you victorious against Corypheus. May you walk in the Light.” She nodded at him again and took her leave, joining one of her generals.

Ruffles gasped as though she had been holding her breath through the whole encounter. “Inquisitor, some day you will go too far.”

“Not in the service of my people, Josephine,” Stones said. “I’m not going to allow anyone to demand the closure of the Inquisition, or to tell me where and how to care for my people. Orlais doesn’t rule us, and the sooner, and more often, I make that clear, the better.”

“As you say. At least she took it well.”

“She didn’t expect anything else, I think.”

“Your reputation as a maverick serves you well, Stones,” Varric said.

Ruffles was looking across the camp into the overgrown expanse of the Arbor Wilds. “I hope this eluvian you seek lies in a temple not far away, Inquisitor.”

“You and me both,” he said, flashing her his easy grin.

“No doubt that is where the fighting will be worst. Andraste keep you safe.”

“I’m sure she will.” As Josephine moved off in the wake of the Empress, Stones glanced at the Seeker, standing nearby, and added, “If Cassandra can’t keep me safe, I’m not sure what good Andraste will do.”

“Do not blaspheme!” she said, shocked, but there was a color in her cheeks that told Varric she was pleased, as well.

“Come and stop me.” 

The Seeker rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she looked down at him. “Later.”

“In that case, let’s get this over with, shall we?”

They set about gathering their team.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana stood with her scouts in the midst of the Wilds. She had taken a position on top of a crumbling wall, her bow poised, waiting for the Red Templars they all knew were coming. This made her a better target, but also gave her a better vantage point from which to aim, and to command the battle.

An elf farther down the wall whispered to a fellow elf who crouched next to him, “Can you feel the magic crackling?”

The second one nodded. “Something more powerful than Corypheus is stirring.”

“We shouldn’t be here,” the first one hissed.

“You won’t be if you allow the Red Templars to hear you,” Leliana scolded them softly. The Arbor Wilds was a place of mystery, to be sure, but they were here to fight flesh and blood, not to be frightened away by spirits and legends.

Both of them glanced at her, in equal parts guilty and annoyed, and then looked back in the direction from which they expected the attack. Scouts had reported Corypheus and a contingent of Red Templars moving south earlier in the morning; these would be his support troops, keeping the Inquisition forces occupied. Leliana itched to go after Corypheus, take matters into her own hands, but this was the Inquisitor’s role, and he and his people needed a path cleared in order to get to Corypheus. That was her task.

Below her, Nathaniel Howe waited, his own bow nocked and ready, with another group of scouts. “Make the monsters pay,” he said to them, “leave none standing.”

A nervous dwarf took heart at the words, nodding with renewed courage. “We won’t flinch,” he said stoutly.

“Good.”

It would be better if they came sooner, Leliana thought. Nerves were fraying with the waiting.

She held her position, listening hard for the signs of an approach. Below her, Nathaniel tightened his grip on his bow, looking up to catch her eye. She nodded to acknowledge that his sharper ears had heard the telltale rustle of oncoming troops.

And then there was battle. Red Templars coming in, swords waving, armor jingling, shouting the name of their master. Leliana kept one eye on the larger combat, surveying her people, watching to see if any showed signs of breaking and falling back, looking for holes the Red Templars could exploit. As she did so, she was mechanically drawing arrows, nocking, sighting, loosing, over and over. She was rustier at this than she would have liked—the days when she had followed Leyden across Ferelden fighting darkspawn were long ago, and darkspawn were far easier targets than the heavily armored Templars.

Amidst the Templars, she spotted several Grey Wardens, and her heart ached, for Nathaniel as well as herself. These would be the last of those who had been enslaved at Adamant, she imagined—she could only hope Nathaniel wasn’t facing a friend. For herself, she felt that bringing them death was a blessing compared to a life obeying Corypheus. She said so under her breath as she loosed an arrow and saw it send a Grey Warden mage flying backward. He didn’t rise.

Below her, she saw the Inquisitor approach, blades flashing. Varric was with him, his beloved Bianca cradled in his arms, and Cassandra, fighting tirelessly and well. Alistair, also, with Hawke at his side, sword and daggers working in concert. And behind them, in support, Solas and Hawke’s elven friend Merrill. 

Morrigan accompanied them, but she wasn’t fighting, which angered Leliana. Morrigan was possibly the most powerful mage she had ever met—if she wasn’t engaging in this battle, she was endangering them all. No doubt, if pressed, she would say something coolly about how someone had to conserve their energies in order to be fresh later in the day—but in Leliana’s mind it was selfishness, pure and simple. Her next arrow flew with a particularly vicious bite, or so it felt.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Cullen was in the thick of the battle, calling out orders even as he thrust and parried. He had forgotten how much he loved this, he thought, trying to dwell in the fierce joy of battle and forget that the people he was fighting had been friends and compatriots not that long ago. If he stopped to think, stopped to try to recognize a fighting style or a stance, he wouldn’t be able to continue.

One of his men caught his arm in the midst of a lull. “Commander, look!”

He followed the line of the soldier’s outstretched arm to see someone he didn’t recognize fighting the Red Templars—an elf, in some kind of golden armor that glinted in the sun. The elf moved with an almost unbelievable speed, darting amongst the Red Templars.

“There’s another one!”

There was. Several more, Cullen could see. And then, with a sickening drop of his stomach, he saw that the elves weren’t just fighting Red Templars—they were going after his men, too. 

The soldier shuddered. “Looks like this temple isn’t deserted after all.”

“Maybe that’s why so few return from the Arbor Wilds,” Cullen answered. He waved his sword. “Inquisition! ‘Ware the elves!” He felt badly for the simplicity of the statement, not wishing to seem to call into question the trustworthiness of the Inquisition’s elven soldiers, but in battle brevity was a necessity.

And then the battle was three-sided, the elves and the Red Templars and the Inquisition taking each other on. Cullen grew overheated, throwing his cape over the nearest tree branch, feeling the sword as an extension of his arm, the ease of it coming back to him. He didn’t let the rhythm of the fight distract him from his command, however, watching his men, signaling one to flank a Templar and another to counter the movement of an elf, even as he found the weakness in the armor of the Templar he faced and sank his sword deep into his opponent’s chest. He pulled it out again, not looking as the Templar fell, not wanting to watch.

He heard a familiar voice next to him. “Can you hold?”

Looking down, he saw the Inquisitor there. He hadn’t even noticed him approach—the Inquisitor could give the spies lessons in stealth, he sometimes thought. “Yes. We will hold.”

“You’re certain?”

“We will not fail you, Inquisitor. We will end this here if it can possibly be done.”

“From your mouth to the Maker’s ears, my friend.”

“Maker go with you.”

Cullen watched as the Inquisitor moved on ahead, his party hurrying behind him, and said a silent prayer to Andraste to guide them in the task ahead of them, to strengthen them against Corypheus, and to bring an end to this so that they could all rest. He would like to rest, he thought suddenly, as yet another person wearing the reddened mockery of what he had once considered to be sacred armor came toward him. But he raised his sword and met the Red Templar with a ring of steel on steel.


	60. Let Loose Upon the World

Alistair made his way with the Inquisitor’s party through the Wilds. So far, the biggest stumbling block they’d faced had been the vines everywhere. Many of them had sharp edges that left a mark like a papercut on exposed skin, or thorns that pricked through cloth. Varric and Lilias and the Inquisitor were suffering the most, in their cloth and leather. Alistair and Cassandra were both fully armored, immune to the vegetation but not to the heat. At least Cassandra was from the north and used to these temperatures, Alistair thought, trying to wipe the sweat off his face and hitting himself in the nose, having forgotten to take off his gauntlet first. It rarely got this hot in Ferelden.

The three mages all appeared cool and comfortable, but then, Morrigan and Merrill had grown up in the wilderness, and Alistair assumed the same had to be true of Solas.

The Red Templars weren’t too difficult to fend off. Harder than darkspawn, granted, but having been trained as a Templar, Alistair understood their moves and was ready to counter them. Cassandra had been given similar training in the Seekers, so the two of them made a good fighting pair, with the Inquisitor and Hawke’s daggers in support, and Varric and the mages ranged behind. It felt so like the old days that occasionally Alistair turned his head to speak to Leyden, only to have all the pain and knowledge of the intervening years come flooding back.

At last they came in sight of the Temple. Time had worn away at its grandeur, but it was still beautiful. It had been built with care, a long, long while ago.

Next to Alistair, Morrigan gasped.

“What?” Thule asked.

“I think … I think this is the Temple of Mythal. In the legends, the elves came here to worship the goddess.”

Thule turned to Solas. “What do you think? Have you dreamed of this place?”

Solas’s face was impassive as always. “The legends do speak of the Temple of Mythal,” he said, but he left it at that.

Merrill’s eyes were shining with wonder. “To think. The Temple of Mythal,” she whispered. Solas glanced at her, his eyes softening a bit. 

Cassandra had gone on ahead of the rest of them, entering through the remnants of what once must have been a grand archway. She came back out of the darkness inside to say, “Temple of Mythal or not, there is fighting ahead. We should hurry.”

The rest of them readied their weapons and followed her. Inside the archway was a long hall, carpeted in soft grasses and moss, leading to another archway, this one in better condition, that framed a picture of a golden lit courtyard. They could all hear the sounds of fighting now.

“Is it the elves?” Lilias asked, meaning the strange elves in the golden armor they had seen more and more of as they had come closer to the Temple. Alistair hated to have to fight them, but they wouldn’t back down, so he really had no choice.

“No doubt,” Morrigan answered. She was moving closer to the opposite archway. The others followed her, but quietly, not wishing to draw attention to their presence until they were certain of what they would find.

Ahead of them, on railings just on the other side of the archway, were draped the bodies of Red Templars, arrows sticking out of them, blood draining from their wounds. Some were huddled on the ground behind the railing. The elves were doing well, clearly. Alistair took a moment to hope that perhaps the elves had already dealt with Corypheus, that this would be the end. 

Of course, if it was, that meant he had to go home to Denerim and return to the throne and decide who he was going to be when he grew up. It meant Lilias would flee again to the wilderness somewhere. Or she would if he couldn’t find it within himself to say to her everything he wanted to say.

He glanced at her now, crouched there next to the doorway, her blue eyes trained on what was happening on the other side. She was beautiful, and intelligent, and a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, and he had been a fool six ways from Sunday. Could she really forgive him for everything he had put her through, or was any attempt to woo her back doomed before it began? He remembered her in the cave, the warmth of her, the way she had given herself so freely. She must have forgiven him—if only he could be sure.

He had caught up with the others, standing just back from the archway in the darkness so that his armor wouldn’t catch the light. He could see over the railings down into the courtyard, though. A cadre of elves was holding a bridge that led to the inner temple, and facing them …

Was that Corypheus himself? Maker’s blood. So they were here now, and this could be it. Alistair prayed it would be, for the sake of all of Thedas.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Seeing Corypheus again—bigger, somehow, and crusted in red lyrium, as if he could look worse than he had when they had first faced him—made Lilias want to vomit. She nearly did, keeping her scanty breakfast down only with an effort of will. 

One of the elves spoke, surprisingly harsh words for such a mellifluous language.

Corypheus was dragging an Inquisition scout by the back of his uniform jacket. He lifted him and threw him toward the elf. Clearly the scout was dead, and past caring what indignities were visited upon his body.

Looking down at the elves arrayed before him, Corypheus said, “These are but remnants. They will not keep us from the Well of Sorrows.”

The remembered resonance of his voice sent a chill down Lilias’s spine. In her distraction, she almost missed the way Morrigan stiffened and half-rose at the name of the well. Thule grasped her arm and pulled her back down behind the thickness of the stone railing.

As Corypheus approached the bridge, the statues on either side lit with power. Familiar with magic and mages, Lilias could feel that power gathering.

Corypheus ignored it, moving closer to the statues and the elves. “Be honored! Witness death at the hands of a new god!”

When he passed them, the pillars poured power into him, energy crackling in the air. Corypheus stiffened and cried out in pain. He reached for the elf in front, lifting him off his feet.

“Haven’t we been here before?” Varric whispered.

“I thought we’d killed him then,” Lilias said. “What in the Void is he doing here?”

The power between the statues built until it exploded, taking Corypheus and the elf, and the other elves and Red Templars unfortunate enough to be standing too close, with it.

When the power dissipated, the statues had crumbled, and Corypheus had fallen. The mage leading his troops continued with them on across the bridge as though nothing had happened. Lilias didn’t like that. With Corypheus fallen, the troops should have no further reason to fight. Something was wrong here.

Morrigan and the Inquisitor had already made their way down the stone steps and were surveying the carnage. Lilias and Varric followed them, the others coming behind. 

Alistair caught her arm. “Look.” He motioned to a body in Grey Warden armor. The man was dead, clearly, his neck lolling at an unnatural angle, but the body was moving, rising to its knees. “That is damned creepy.” Then his face paled. “Oh, Maker, no. No. Come on.” Still gripping Lilias’s arm, he pulled her toward the bridge. Solas and Merrill followed, and then Varric, with a glance back at Thule. Over her shoulder, Lilias saw brief glimpses of a scene that added up to a single horror: Corypheus resurrecting from the body of the Grey Warden.

“It cannot be!” Morrigan cried. She looked toward Alistair, and must have recognized in his face that he had already realized what was happening—whatever it was. Lilias still didn’t understand.

“Across the bridge. Now!” Cassandra called, reaching for the back of the Inquisitor’s jacket to haul him along with her. Morrigan ran at their side.

By the time Corypheus’s dragon swooped across the courtyard toward him, they were all safely inside the main temple, with the doors firmly closed and barred.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Once the doors were safely closed, a crash on the other side telling them how close a call it had been, Thule turned to Alistair and Morrigan, crossing his arms over his chest. “All right, I want to know what happened there, how Corypheus returned to life. We saw him die!”

“So did we!” Varric protested. “I mean, we didn’t just _think_ Corypheus was dead the first time. We made damned sure. No pulse, no breath, full of stab wounds—not really a lot of room for doubt.”

Lilias had her arms wrapped around herself as if she were chilled. “Maybe the Wardens imprisoned Corypheus because he can’t be killed.” She raised frightened blue eyes. “Alistair? What have I let loose?”

He knelt next to her, taking her hands in his. “In my book, ‘brutally murdered’ doesn’t equal ‘let loose upon the world’. You couldn’t have known.”

“Known what?”

“That his life force passes to the next thing with the Blight—darkspawn or Grey Warden.”

Her eyes widened. “So if there hadn’t been a Grey Warden with them, _you_ could have been the one?”

He hadn’t thought of that, and he didn’t like the idea at all. But he imagined that was what Corypheus had wanted the Grey Wardens along for in the first place. He put his arms around Lilias and held her close. “No. I wouldn’t have been.” It was a tiny little white lie; he hoped he could be forgiven for it.

Morrigan snorted and rolled her eyes, but she didn’t contradict him, for a wonder.

“Fine, then,” Thule said. “We don’t have time to find a way to stop him right now; we have to get ahead of his troops and get to that Well.”

“’Tis strange,” Morrigan said. “Archdemons possess the same ability, and Grey Wardens are still able to slay them.”

“Corypheus isn’t an Archdemon,” Alistair said. He got to his feet, still holding tightly to Lilias’s hands as he helped her up as well. 

Varric shook his head. “That must be why they locked him away, then, because they knew what he could do. Bastards.”

Alistair considered taking offense—but, after all, the Grey Wardens hadn’t been able to hold Corypheus. They’d lost their hold on him and brought all this on the world. In the meantime, it seemed their task in this temple wasn’t exactly the same as they had been told. He glared at Morrigan, an expression so familiar it practically settled on his face on its own. “You said Corypheus was after an eluvian, but now we hear about some ‘Well of Sorrows’. You want to clarify?”

“I … am uncertain of what he referred to.” 

She was lying. He knew she was lying because she hadn’t bristled at his tone or insulted him, and because he had seen her reaction when the Well was mentioned.

Thule looked up at her in surprise. “You don’t know? You said you knew what he was looking for! That’s why we’re here!”

Solas snorted. “Confidence can carry one only so far, it seems.”

“What do you know about the Well, Solas?”

“Only that it holds great power, and should not be interfered with.”

“Nicely non-specific,” Alistair muttered under his breath. All this secrecy and mysticism and “great power” all over the place set his teeth on edge.

“I … may have suspected,” Morrigan admitted reluctantly. “I did not know for certain.”

“You made a damned good show of it anyway.”

She shrugged.

Thule glared at her, and she threw up her hands. “Fine! I was wrong. Does that please you?”

“Hardly,” he snapped.

“It does not matter! Whatever the Well of Sorrows might be, Corypheus seeks it, and thus you must keep it from his grasp.”

Thule shook his head. “When we get back to Skyhold, we’re going to have a talk about this, Morrigan.”

“I have no doubt, Inquisitor.” A smile was on her face, that same maddening superior smile that Alistair had spent a solid decade hating.


	61. When a Man is in a Temper

Thule had only barely restrained himself from sending Morrigan out through the Temple and back into the Wilds alone. He doubted she would have gone, anyway, but at least getting in her face and letting her know he wasn’t going to take any more of her lies and half-truths might have felt good.

Instead he followed Lilias, who had found the central tree in the courtyard and was circling it, looking for markings. 

“Ooh, the _venadahl_ ,” Merrill said excitedly, joining her friend. They found a set of markings etched into the tree, and she frowned at them. “I don’t think I recognize all of this.”

Morrigan pushed herself between the other two women. “Let me look.”

“Does it say anything about this Well of Sorrows?” Thule asked.

Solas didn’t appear to even have looked at the tree, but he spoke up anyway. “ _Atish’all vir abelasan_. It means ‘enter the path of the Well of Sorrows.’”

Thule glanced at the elf over his shoulder, rather surprised Solas had spoken. He had been remarkably quiet so far this whole trip.

“There is something here about knowledge. Respectful … or possibly pure.” Morrigan peered more closely at the carving in the bark. “ _Shiven_ , _shivennen_ … No. I cannot be certain. Nonetheless, that it mentions the Well at all is a good omen.” She narrowed her eyes, studying the tree. “Supplicants to Mythal would have first paid obeisance here. Perhaps if we follow their path, it may aid our entry.”

Cassandra spoke up, sharply. “Following a ritual to appease elven gods? Long-dead or no, I don’t like it.”

“You would say as much,” Morrigan replied dismissively.

She wasn’t entirely wrong; Cassandra was Chantry through and through.

“Perhaps you wish to turn back?” Morrigan added, her cool glance at Cassandra a challenge.

“Surely there are more forthright ways to enter, which do not demand that we profess beliefs we do not own.”

“And your precious Chantry does not demand such empty promises from those who beg at its doors?”

Thule got in between the two of them before they came to blows. “Enough! Cassandra, we will give our due respect to those who built this Temple. Morrigan, that respect has limits.”

Neither of them was pleased with his intervention, naturally, but they quieted, which was what he had been after.

They scattered, investigating the courtyard. Thule was anxious not to miss anything that could tell them more about the Well, even if it meant delaying slightly. A delay now could save them time later. He and Merrill found a wall carving hidden beneath layers of vines, and he stepped back while she studied it, her fingers reverently hovering just above the marks in the wood. 

“The Temple of Mythal. Constructed in an age when this was elven land,” she whispered. “The stories say they called Mythal a goddess of justice, coming here to request her wisdom and her judgment on their disputes. But they had to prove their worth, first.”

“A demanding goddess.”

Varric joined them in time to hear the last of the conversation. “Justice is demanding, Stones. True justice requires the whole story, even if you don’t want to tell it all.”

“Silence has reigned here for time beyond memory,” Solas said sharply, as if he would have them all revert to such silence.

“It can reign here again, as soon as we prevent Corypheus from gaining anything inside that could make him stronger. Or, at least, his mage general,” Thule added. He was disappointed that today was not going to be the day they finished Corypheus off, since he and his dragon were still outside the Temple … but he was equally relieved not to be fighting Corypheus today, which significantly improved all their chances of living to see tomorrow.

He followed Merrill to a statue of a wolf. It was a rather charming statue, actually, Thule thought, studying it. The wolf appeared to have a sense of humor.

But Merrill was staring at it, perplexed.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“This is the Dread Wolf, Inquisitor. Fen’Harel. He … he tricked the gods into sealing themselves away in the Beyond for all time. This statue has no place in the Temple of Mythal. It shouldn’t be here.”

“’Tis true,” Morrigan agreed, joining her, the two of them standing side by side as they studied the statue. “This is as blasphemous as painting Andraste naked in the Chantry.”

Privately, Thule couldn’t see why that was so blasphemous—Andraste had been married to the Maker, after all, surely they had shared a marital bed. But he followed the line of reasoning anyway, and wasn’t interested. “I’m sure if an ancient elf was here, there would be a perfectly good explanation,” he said impatiently. “Does it say anything about the Well?”

“No. But, Inquisitor, I refuse to believe we cannot tease out the reason behind this mystery.”

“For all your ‘knowledge,’ Lady Morrigan,” Solas said, his tone making clear in just how little respect he held that purported knowledge, “you cannot resist giving legend the weight of history. The wise do not mistake one for the other.”

He had her there, and Morrigan knew it. She bristled. “Pray tell, what meaning does our elven ‘expert’ sense lurking behind this, then?” she challenged him.

Thule was interested in that answer, as curious as Morrigan to see what Solas would say.

Solas disappointed them both, turning away with a shrug. “None we can discern by staring at it. Come, Merrill.” 

With a final puzzled glance of her own at the statue, Merrill went with him. She whispered a question to him as they walked away, which Solas answered with a single decisive shake of the head.

“He’s right,” Thule said. “We’ve spent enough time here. Come on. You can do your ritual, if you insist.”

Morrigan looked superior and not a little arrogant, going through the motions, but the doors did open, and without a finger laid on them.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
When the doors opened, the Inquisitor stalked on ahead with Cassandra. Even his hair looked angry, Alistair reflected. “You really have a way with people, you know that?” he said to Morrigan.

She raised an eyebrow. “’Tis always thus—when a man is in a temper, it must be a woman’s fault.”

Alistair started to reply to that arrant ridiculousness, but Varric’s chuckle stopped him. “Much as I like to see you put your foot in your mouth, Your Royal Highness, that argument is so lost already it won’t even be entertaining to watch.”

He wasn’t wrong, and Alistair had other things he wanted to discuss with Morrigan anyway. “That looked like the power of the Blight Corypheus used. Do you think it can be?”

For a wonder, she took the question seriously, considering her response. “We two, we have seen a true Archdemon rage. Corypheus is no Archdemon. But the manner of his rising looked very like that of a Blighted creature seeking the taint nearest him.” For a moment, her face blackened with anger, and Alistair remembered what she and Leliana had told him about the ritual Morrigan had wanted to attempt during the Blight. He was glad she hadn’t succeeded—but he wasn’t, at the same time. Then again, if Leyden were alive, what would she be like now? Certainly not like what his dreams had painted.

“So how did he get the power to do … whatever that was?” Varric asked.

“Send his soul into a Blighted body. And I don’t know,” Alistair said. “And I don’t know if the answer would help. Knowing he can do it—that helps, some, at least.”

“Now we know why he didn’t die before,” Lilias said from behind them. He turned, wanting to comfort her, and saw that there was no need—there was a martial light in her eyes that said she was just waiting for another chance at Corypheus. She was beautiful.

“We must focus upon the Well,” Morrigan insisted. “If Corypheus obtains it, any chance of success may be lost.”

Alistair didn’t bother to point out that Morrigan claimed not to know what the Well was. He raised his voice, looking over his shoulder at Solas, who walked with Merrill and Lilias. “Solas, what can you tell us about these elves here?”

Morrigan spoke before Solas could respond. “I would imagine them a group of Dalish separated from their brethren. Cultists. Fanatic in their desire to keep humans away.”

Solas shrugged. “It is as good a tale as any.”

“Those don’t look like any Dalish I know,” Merrill objected. “What if they are truly the guardians of the temple, descended from the ancients, having resided here since before the fall of Arlathan?” Her eyes were shining with wonder, and Solas gave her an affectionate look.

“That is another good tale,” he said to her, gently.

“I would imagine that to be unlikely,” Morrigan objected, “but … if true, the implications are astounding.”

The greedy look on her face reminded Alistair of when Leyden had found that black grimoire for her. It made him uneasy.

“How would that even be possible?” Cassandra objected.

Solas smiled. “With magic, anything is possible.”

They had entered a large room—vast, cavernous, filled with green light filtering down through cracks in the ceiling high above and the vines that covered them. Ahead were Corypheus’s troops, a line of mages who were working to open a hole in the floor.

Corypheus’s mage general stood watching the Inquisitor’s team approach, seeming remarkably unconcerned. She detailed several of her mages to deal with them.

Alistair and Thule and the others were a formidable force, seasoned fighters all, powerful and highly trained, but the mages had numbers, and magic, and only Alistair could counteract it—and his skills in that area were more rusty than he liked to admit.

So it took them longer than they would have hoped to get through the line of mages, and by the time they had done so, Corypheus’s mage general was gone, vanished through the crack she and her fellows had made in the floor.

Thule rushed to it, stopping on the edge, his arms windmilling. “If we hurry, we can catch them!” he called back to the rest of them.

Morrigan stepped in front of him. “Hold! Think a moment. While they rush ahead, we should walk the petitioner’s path, as before.”

“An army fights and dies for us outisde! The longer we tarry, the more soldiers we lose outside. Inquisition soldiers. Good soldiers,” Cassandra said. “Let us jump down and be done with this place!”

Solas sighed. “In this case, I must agree with the witch. This is ancient ground, deserving of our respect.”

Alistair nodded. “I don’t like to go along with Morrigan, either, but I’ve rarely known her to be wrong about these things.”

“Why, thank you, Alistair.”

Merrill added her encouragement for the petitioner’s path as well.

Lilias shook her head. “We have to go. We can’t let more lives be lost appeasing magic we don’t even know is there—not when we could catch Corypheus’s people.”

“Please, Inquisitor. We cannot find the Well of Sorrows unprepared,” Morrigan entreated.

“We aren’t supposed to be unprepared!” Thule roared. “You demanded to be brought along, Morrigan, so that you could use your fabulous expertise, but you didn’t even know what he was here for. Or you were lying all along. Either way, I don’t trust you! I don’t trust you. You’re out for yourself, for some reasons of your own—you don’t care about Corypheus or the Inquisition. if we stop them before they get to the Well, we don’t need to know anything about it at all!”

None of them had ever seen him lose his temper, and everyone but Morrigan moved a little away from the Inquisitor, giving him space.

“If we reach the Well before they do, their plan is ended,” she said, appearing to be oblivious to his anger.

“Why would we do that, Morrigan? I’m not here for the Well,” he said, his voice low and dangerously, deceptively soft. “I don’t care about the Well. I care about stopping Corypheus. You may care about the Well, but what you care about means less to me at the moment than a pile of bronto shit.”

She opened her mouth to speak, and he moved closer to her.

“Go ahead. Tell me about ancient powers and legends and mythical creatures. I dare you. You barely know what the Well of Sorrows is—I’m not about to take your word on anything further.”

“And if I told you that I read more in the first chamber than I revealed?”

“I would strongly consider strangling you where you stand.”

“I would not attempt it, if I were you, Inquisitor.”

“Then don’t try to pretend to more knowledge than you have—or admit to having willfully practiced a deception on me.”

Alistair considered stepping between them, but seeing Morrigan facing off against someone who could hold her at a standstill, if not force her to back down, was too delicious to disrupt.

Thule looked at her for a moment longer, then turned to the others. “I’m going through the hole. You can come with me or not, as you choose.” And he leaped.

“At last,” Cassandra said in relief, and followed him, Varric and Lilias close on their heels.

Alistair looked at Merrill, who looked genuinely grieved. Her eyes were on Solas, who was clearly angry, and undecided what to do about it. Morrigan looked absolutely outraged, and Alistair grinned at her. “Didn’t have things all your own way this time, did you?”

“I wish with all my heart I truly could turn you into a toad. I would spit you and roast you for supper.” 

His grin widened, and he followed the others. Shortly after, Merrill appeared below, then Solas, and finally Morrigan, trailing far behind, ostentatiously refusing to be of any help.


	62. The Vir'Abelasan

Thule regretted having let his anger at Morrigan push him into taking the route underground. At the very least, that decision should have been made with more thought and less impulsiveness. But having made the call, he felt it incumbent on him to get through the remaining troops that awaited them efficiently. Fortunately, he had a good team at his back, and they were getting better with every fight. Their frustration at missing the chance to take out Corypheus and end this thing here and now was spurring them on.

At last, they walked into a large, silent chamber that still retained most of its original grandeur.

“Look at it,” Merrill whispered. Her head turned, her body following it, until she looked something like a dog chasing its tail.

Solas caught her arm, smiling at her, clearly enjoying her wonder.

“This is … not what I expected,” Morrigan said softly. “What was this chamber used for?”

As they moved further in, Thule felt a prickling on the back of his neck. He had felt it before, many times. Someone was watching him. He held up his hand to halt the others.

Then Varric, who was looking at something behind Thule, said, “Oh, shit,” and Thule turned to see a whole line of elven archers, arrows nocked and pointed at them.

Morrigan said, “Inquisitor,” and he turned around again, looking up to the top of a set of marble stairs where a single hooded elf awaited them. 

He said something in elvish, then switched to common. An impressive feat, since he appeared to predate common by several ages. “You are unlike the other invaders. You stumble down our paths at the side of two of our own.”

Merrill looked pleased at the kinship; Solas bored. He glanced to the side to avoid looking at the hooded elf.

The elf glanced at the Anchor, which sizzled and spat in the center of Thule’s palm. “You bear the mark of magic which is … familiar.” He frowned. “How has this come to pass? What is your connection to those who first disturbed our slumber?”

Thule was concerned that Morrigan might try to place herself in the middle of the conversation, but she was silent—for a wonder. “They are our enemies,” he said, loudly and clearly. “We seek to prevent them from going any further. To kill them. If you have already done so, we will leave.”

“How long have you slumbered?” Merrill asked eagerly, the question bursting out of her as though she couldn’t keep it back any longer. “Who are you? Please, you must tell me.”

The elf looked at her, his set features softening. “I am called Abelas.”

“My name is Merrill.”

“Merrill.” Abelas nodded. “We are Sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground.”

“What did I tell you?” Morrigan hissed at Thule in annoyance and triumph. He waved a hand impatiently to silence her.

Abelas continued as though he hadn’t heard her. “We wake only to fight, to preserve this place. Our numbers diminish with each invasion.”

“Oh. How sad.” Merrill’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“Perhaps.” Abelas was looking at Thule, however. “I know what you seek. Like all who have come before, you wish to drink from the _vir’abelasan_.”

“’The Place of the Well of Sorrows’,” Morrigan whispered. Her eyes glittered greedily, and Thule recognized with a sinking heart that this was what she had truly come for.

“It is not for you,” Abelas told her sharply. “It is not for any of you!”

Thule considered having Solas speak to him, but in the elf’s strange mood, that was unlikely to do any good at the moment. He thought about Merrill, but she was so starstruck by Abelas, she could easily just hand him the rest of them from the kindness of her heart.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Alistair said, waving his hands. “Let me get this straight—you’re elves from ancient times? From before the Imperium destroyed Arlathan?”

Abelas looked at Alistair as though he was some species of small bug. “The _shemlen_ did not destroy Arlathan. We _elvhen_ warred upon ourselves. By the time the doors of the sanctuary closed, our time was over.”

“What?” Merrill’s hands flew to cover her mouth, wide open in shock. She turned to Solas for confirmation, and he nodded, briefly, and turned away from her, his face to the wall.

“That’s—that’s not possible. Is it?” Lilias asked.

“It matters not,” Abelas told her. “We endure. The _vir’abelasan_ must be preserved.”

“What does it do?” Varric, the storyteller, had his eyes fastened on the ancient elf, studying every detail.

“It is a path, walked by those who toiled in Mythal’s favor.”

“Priests?” Alistair asked.

Thule stepped forward, ignoring the faint sounds behind him as of a line of bowstrings being drawn back, ready to fire. “Corypheus wants your Well,” he said urgently, desperate to convince the elves. “I don’t want it. Let me take care of his troops, and then we’ll leave. My word on it.”

Abelas looked at him, his clear amber eyes boring into Thule’s face. At last he shook his head, and Thule’s heart sank. “I do not believe you. And our duty is clear. The _vir’abelasan_ shall not be usurped … even if I must destroy it.”

“What! No?” Morrigan cried. “You must not!”

Abelas barked some words at his archers and the arrows took flight even as he disappeared. Next to Thule, where Morrigan had stood, a raven hovered in the air, taking swift wing after Abelas.

Merrill would have placed herself between the archers and the rest of the group, had Solas not dragged her back to comparative safety behind a pillar. “No! Please! We mean you no harm!" she cried. "Stop this!”  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
As Merrill wept, Lilias tried to pull herself together. This was too much like the attack of Merrill’s clan, when they had been forced to defend themselves and ended in having to destroy the entire clan. She couldn’t blame her friend for not being able to face the situation and pit herself against these remnants of everything her history stood for.

The elves, however, had no such scruples, and were not going to be stopped until all of them were dead. There was no more arguing with them—their faces were blank and without thought, focused entirely on killing those who threatened the Temple. Had the Inquisitor taken the pilgrim’s path, would they be here now? Lilias wasn’t certain. It was entirely possible the elves would have attacked anyway. But they would never know—and Merrill was going to blame him.

Lilias threw herself into the fray, stabbing and slashing not with conviction, but out of self-defense. There was little skill in this and more simple determination.

Eventually they prevailed, with a smattering of injuries, all tolerable—at least enough to keep going.

Solas looked around him at the carnage and shook his head. “This was unnecessary. A pointless waste of life.”

“I didn’t make them attack, Solas,” the Inquisitor said defensively. “They’re the ones clinging to their duty in the face of my word that we didn’t want their Well.”

“You think they have not heard falsehood and deception before? What was to force you to keep your word once they let you pass? Their job is to treat all as intruders … all except those who come as supplicants.”

“Don’t do that! If we had used the rituals, maybe they would have let us through, or maybe they would have decided dwarves and humans have no place here. We can’t know.”

“We can’t know. Not now,” Solas agreed acidly. 

They left the large chamber and moved deeper and deeper into the Temple. Ahead of them, Lilias heard a voice speaking in a language that sounded like Fenris. Tevene. The same voice spoke again: “I will swim if I must! The Well demands a vessel.”

She felt relief sweep through her. They would be in time, then. They would stop Corypheus, and no more elves needed to die at their hands. She had killed enough elves for a lifetime, she felt.

But Corypheus’s people were slicing through the elves themselves. Would there be any left when they were done? This had to stop.

The Inquisitor seemed to agree. He and Cassandra were hurrying on ahead, but stopped when Corypheus’s mage general turned toward them, telling them both to stand down.

Slowly, Lilias began edging along the wall, using every trick she knew to remain obscured. 

“Leave now, or not at all,” Corypheus’s general said to the Inquisitor.

She didn’t know him very well, Lilias thought. She judged the distance. Too far to throw a knife, not and have it land properly. She kept going, inching across the space.

The Inquisitor was keeping Corypheus’s general talking, trying to keep her from going up the crumbling stairs toward where the water of the Well gleamed greenly in the still light of the room. One of Corypheus’s men was in the way. Lilias slid her dagger into the space between his helmet and the top of his armor and caught him as he sagged silently into her arms, dragging him back carefully to the brush. Fortunately, all of Corypheus’s people were fascinated by the exchange between their general and the Inquisitor, not paying attention to one another. 

Lilias was able to skirt the next two men without drawing attention to herself. She could see that Varric and Merrill had noticed what she was doing. Varric was fussing over Bianca, ostensibly, but he could have a shot off in seconds. And Merrill’s hand was on her staff, just waiting to take her revenge on those who had despoiled this last relic of her people.

At last, Lilias was just a few steps away from Corypheus’s general. She caught Varric’s eye, knowing he was ready, and then Merrill’s, and together they leaped into action. The general dropped to Lilias’s daggers, the two men on either side of her to Merrill’s magic and Bianca’s crossbow bolt.

The Inquisitor and Cassandra and Alistair made quick work of the others. Solas stood aside, a look that almost spoke of defeat on his face. Naturally, he would feel as badly about the despoiling of this sacred place as Merrill. Apparently he didn’t have her anger to channel to relieve his feelings.

There was one elf left protecting the Temple. Abelas looked wildly down at them all from the top of the stairs—and then from nowhere the raven swooped into sight.

“Morrigan!” the Inquisitor called, and he followed her. Longer-legged, both Cassandra and Lilias caught up to him and passed him, and then Merrill went flying past them both up the stairs on swift feet.

The witch turned into herself as she landed between Abelas and the Well, and stood facing him down defiantly. “The elf seeks to destroy the Well of Sorrows.”

“It’s his, Morrigan. Let him if he wants.”

Solas made a sound as if someone had struck him, and Merrill cried, “No!”

Abelas sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “So, the sanctum is despoiled at last.”

“Better that than destruction!”

“Better destruction to keep it from your grasping fingers,” Abelas spat back at the witch. “Better it be lost than bestowed upon the undeserving.”

“Fool! You’d let your people’s legacy rot in the shadows.”

“It isn’t yours to care about!” Merrill shouted.

Morrigan ignored her, glaring at Abelas.

The Inquisitor stepped between witch and elf. “There is no need of this. Corypheus’s troops are gone; he can gain nothing from the Well now. We don’t need it.”

Morrigan looked down at him. “He will return the moment our backs are turned, Inquisitor.” In a measured, rational voice, she added, “If the power of the Well can be turned against Corypheus, can you afford not to use it?”

Abelas shook his head. “You do not know what you ask.” He turned to the Well, speaking almost to himself, and to the spirits of those who had gone before him. “As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass their knowledge on … through this.”

Merrill drew near the side of the Well, looking down into the water in reverence.

Turning to the Inquisitor, Abelas whispered, “All that we are. All that we were. It would be lost forever.”

“Come on, Morrigan. Let’s go.” Alistair reached for her arm, but she turned on him, her eyes sparking gold in the light.

“Touch me and I will end you, little king.”

He withdrew her fingers as if he believed she meant it. Perhaps she did. Lilias looked at Abelas, her heart aching for him. “I’m so sorry.”

He cared little for her sympathy, and why should he? She had come here unasked, with these others. Whether with good intentions or not, they were set to bring the worst to pass.

Solas approached him, and he looked up, the two of them staring into each other’s eyes. Softly, Solas said, “There are other places, friend. Other duties. Your people yet linger.”

For a moment, Lilias thought Abelas would waver, but he straightened, and shook his head. “There may be other duties, but this one is mine.” He turned his head toward Morrigan. “Those who drank from the _vir’abelasan_ paid a great price, bound to the service of Mythal for eternity.” A great wave of magic emanated from his outstretched hands, sending them all sprawling. By the time they had regained their feet, the water of the Well was swirling in the pool, the air growing heavy around them as the water dispersed into it.

Morrigan was the first to regain her feet, and her wits, and Abelas paid the price for it, as she slipped a dagger between his ribs and ended his ages of service. 

Merrill was only moments too late to stop her, and she dragged the witch away from the elf’s body. “How could you?”

“He would have destroyed the Well!”

“So will you, but in a different way.”

“I have no time for your puzzles.”

“It is not a puzzle. You know what I mean, exactly what I mean, and I won’t allow it.”

Morrigan smiled. “Won’t you?”

“There must have been some other way!” protested the Inquisitor.

Turning to him, Morrigan raised her eyebrows. “Corypheus forced the elf’s hand. And ours. Blame him, if you must blame someone.” She left him and went to the edge of the Well, staring into it as though she couldn’t turn away. “I did not expect the Well to feel so … hungry.” Without looking at him, she said to the Inquisitor, “I am willing to pay any price the Well demands. I am also the best suited to use its knowledge in your service.”

“Best suited?” Alistair asked scornfully. “With Solas and Merrill here? I don’t think so.”

Morrigan ignored him. Solas said, shortly, “Leave me out of this. I cannot— No.” Merrill said mournfully, “I would have the knowledge, and pay the price, but …” She spread her hands out in front of her and Lilias could see the pale marks where she had cut herself in blood magic to fix her eluvian. “My price always seems to fall to others to pay, and I will not be party to that again.”

Lilias reached for her friend’s hand, holding it tightly.

“Let’s call a spade a spade, Morrigan,” Thule said. “You don’t want the Well for the Inquisition, or the greater good. You want it for yourself.”

“Regardless of why I want it, the point is how I can use it.”

“Think of the price, Morrigan.” Merrill’s voice was stronger now. “’Bound forever to the will of Mythal. Do you know what that means?” She held Morrigan’s gaze trapped with her own. 

“Bound to the will of a dead god? It seems an empty warning.”

“Mythal is not dead—the Well is very much alive, and it holds her will. Their will. At their behest, for the rest of your life. Is that what you wish?”

Morrigan looked shaken by Merrill’s words, but she nodded. “It is. And if you will grant it to me, then I will grant you what you wish.”

“You mean—?”

“Yes. The eluvian.”

Slowly, Merrill nodded at the Inquisitor, who looked as if he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. He nodded, too. Solas moaned in pain; Alistair gave a muffled curse and turned away.

Triumphantly, Morrigan stepped into the Well, immersing herself completely. It thickened around her, like molten silver, pouring in upon itself over and over, shrinking in from the edges, until it had all folded itself inside her, and she lay motionless in the empty space where the Well had been.


	63. Through the Mirror

Stones moved toward the witch, bending over her still form with concern. “Morrigan?”

Varric wasn’t sure it mattered if she woke up. The damage had been done, and she had proved she couldn’t be trusted to use whatever knowledge she had gained for any purposes but her own. But having gambled on her, Stones didn’t want to lose what little he might get.

The King of Ferelden had turned away, his hand over his face, when the witch had walked into the Well. Hawke had watched, fascinated, her blue eyes huge in her face. Cassandra had scowled, her arms crossed over her chest, disapproving. Daisy had wept, the agony of her choice, whatever deal she had made with the witch, tearing at her. Chuckles watched her with an expressionless face. Varric hoped he wasn’t about to break Daisy’s heart. It had been mended so many times already, he didn’t think she had it in her to pull it back together and stitch the tears one more time.

The witch sat up, babbling in what sounded like elven. Chuckles glanced at her in irritation, and Daisy lifted her tear-stained face, stricken. Varric couldn’t tell if it was because the words themselves had meaning, or if it was a simple reminder of the heritage they had given away. For the life of him, he didn’t know why neither of them had been willing to drink when it became clear that it was that or lose the Well—but it was one story he didn’t feel he had the right, or the knowledge, to tell.

Getting carefully to her feet, the witch pushed back the hair that had fallen in her face. Her eyes were wide, wild, staring at nothing. Slowly, as they all watched her, she blinked herself back to reality, and at last she said, “I … I am intact.” Looking down at her hands, she nodded, her voice growing stronger as she continued, “Yes. There is much to sift through, but … but now we can—”

What they could do seemed destined to remain a mystery. Even as she spoke, a thick dark cloud of mist was forming around her ankles, swirling around Stones, tendrils reaching even the edge of the pool where the King of Ferelden stood. 

“Maker’s blood!” His Majesty was looking out across the expanse of the chamber to a balcony high up on the far wall.

Following his gaze, Varric hissed, “Shit.”

It was Corypheus. And he was pissed. Absolutely enraged that they had gotten to the Well before he had. Varric wanted to feel triumphant, but he was mostly feeling like he was about to pee his pants with fear, and that would do his reputation no good at all.

With a shriek of rage, Corypheus rose into the air, propelling himself forward by sheer will, or so it seemed.

The witch pointed to the broken mirror that lay behind the Well. “The eluvian!”

With a wave of her hand, the dull metal swirled with light. What was she going to do, Varric wondered, blind Corypheus with his own reflection?  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Alistair had drawn his sword as Corypheus took flight, but it was clear a single blade wasn’t going to take this … darkspawn magister thing down. Behind him, he heard a commotion as Morrigan hurried toward the mirror, the Inquisitor and Cassandra at her heels. 

“Through the mirror!” the Inquisitor shouted.

Through the mirror? Great, more of Morrigan’s magic. Just what he wanted in his life, Alistair thought. But he sheathed his sword and turned. Merrill was rushing toward the mirror, her eyes shining, and he remembered Hawke telling him about Merril’s eluvian and how hard she had tried to make it work. Of course she would be delighted by this. Solas was at her heels, Varric not far behind. Cassandra had already gonethrough, while the Inquisitor waited to make sure they all made it and Morrigan waited to presumably close it behind her.

Hawke stood alone, daggers bared, tears in her eyes as she faced Corypheus down defiantly.

Alistair caught her arm. “We have to go!”

“No. I … I killed him before. Let me kill him again.”

“You can’t.”

“I—“ She looked at him and then at Corypheus, despair written on her face. 

“I’m sorry,” Alistair told her. “I’m not leaving you.” And he lifted her over his shoulder and carried her through the mirror. Thule and Morrigan followed him, the mirror closing behind them, leaving Corypheus to the empty Well.

He couldn’t put Lilias down in the grey nowhere Morrigan led them through, because if he did, he was afraid she would stab him. A lot. She was pretty angry. 

At last they tumbled through another eluvian into what looked like a disused chapel, a place the Inquisitor and Varric seemed to accept as Skyhold, or at least as safety. 

Disregarding the others, Alistair let Lilias down and stood in front of her, ready to take the brunt of her anger. And she gave it to him, beating on his chest and shoulders. Vaguely he was aware of the rest of the party leaving the room, but his focus was on standing here and letting Lilias get out all her anger and frustration and fear. She had dropped the daggers, he was glad to see, but her fists were more than adequate to express her emotions. He found the continued onslaught hard to stand up to.

At last she wore herself out, turning away from him, her shoulders slumping in weariness and defear. “Why? Couldn’t you have just left me there to fight him? It wouldn’t have mattered, and I could have—I could have …”

“It took you and a team of others, at your peak—“

She snorted. “Hardly. I don’t know how many days we’d been stuck in that tower with nothing to eat but moldy biscuits.”

“Fine, but there were more of you than one. You would have been throwing your life away.”

Lilias shrugged. “Who would there be to care?”

Alistair took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “I would.” She rolled her eyes, and he held her there in front of him, waiting until she looked at him again. “I would. I—I’m never leaving you behind again, Lilias. I don’t know what in the Void I’m doing half the time, and I stumble around and put both feet in my mouth the other half the time, and I’m terribly dense because it’s taken me most of a decade to get my head out of my arse, but …”

He stopped to take a breath, and Lilias challenged him. “But what? For once in your life, Alistair, just say what you’re saying without all this flailing about!”

“I love you.”

The words rushed from his mouth, taking them both by surprise. They stood staring at each other.

“Do you, really?” There was anger in her voice, but wonder, too, and something that might have been hope.

Now that the words were out, Alistair wondered why it had taken him so long to say them. “I really do.”

“I …” She stopped, looking up at him, her eyes filled with unshed tears. “Don’t break my heart, Alistair. Not again.”

“I won’t. I promise you I won’t.”

Slowly, hesitantly, they moved toward one another, arms sliding about each other, lips meeting at first tentatively and then with an undeniable promise.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
It took several days for the bulk of the army to make its way back to Skyhold, but Cullen and the other advisors arrived late in the day after Thule’s party had returned from the temple. They called a War Room meeting for the morning after they returned, and all were quite interested in Thule’s portion of the tale. He had sent a raven with the basics of what had happened, carefully encoded, but the full story held them all spellbound.

Leliana’s eyes were on Morrigan the whole time. Morrigan seemed … older. Calmer. Less superior. Distracted half the time, as though someone was whispering in her ear. What changes had come with the Well? And had they been worth the price … or would the price be revealed in its entirety only in the years to come? She didn’t like that this power had been entrusted with the witch, but she couldn’t say she was surprised, either.

“Well,” Cullen said, “I’m pleased to report that we won the battle. When you went through that mirror, Corypheus and his dragon fled the field. I’m not sure why—or where they went.”

“What he wanted was no longer within the Temple,” Morrigan said.

“Where is it?” Thule asked her.

She looked pointedly at the Anchor, and he closed his fist over it.

“But if his troops have been vanquished, can we not consider Corypheus to be finished?” Josephine asked.

Leliana shrugged. “I doubt it. But if he is wise, he will hide and rebuild his strength before he attacks again.”

“He will not hide.”

The Inquisitor looked up at Morrigan. “So he’ll come here, then. To Skyhold.”

“Not necessarily,” she responded, “but he will not remain idle. His desire exceeds his caution, frustrated as it has been at every turn. By you, Inquisitor.”

It was so like Morrigan’s typical superiority that Leliana couldn’t help questioning it. “And exactly how could you have such insight into his plans?”

That familiar half-smile, so knowing and infuriating, played on Morrigan’s mouth. “The Well of Sorrows held many voices, and they speak to me now from across the ages. They hold wisdom, secrets I never dreamed possible.” As she spoke, the half-smile faded, and she looked earnestly down at the Inquisitor. “But even they fear what Corypheus has become.” She nodded, then, as if someone had spoken something in her ear, a new thought. “Luckily, even he has a weakness.”

“What is it, then?” Cullen asked impatiently.

“The dragon. It is not truly an Archdemon; it is, instead, rather more like a familiar, in which Corypheus has invested part of his being. Doubtless out of pride, to emulate the gods of old. That pride can be exploited.”

“How?”

“Kill the dragon, and Corypheus’s ability to leap into other bodies is disrupted. He can be slain.”

“The voices in your head told you that?” 

Morrigan smiled at Leliana’s rudeness. “Yes. They did.”

“Never mind who told her; it isn’t as though Corypheus is just going to stand back and let us kill his dragon, the last of his power,” Thule snapped.

“Yet you must do it even so.” Morrigan continued, “There is a way to defeat the dragon, to match Corypheus in his power. The Well whispers it to me now.”

“Oh, for the love of the Maker,” Leliana whispered, rolling her eyes.

Morrigan ignored her. “I must study, converse with the spirits, and then I will be ready to tell you all, Inquisitor.” She drifted out of the room as though she wasn’t entirely certain where she was going or what world she was moving through.

Leliana looked at the Inquisitor. “Are you certain that was the right course of action?”

“What, you mean Morrigan and the Well? Void, no. I would rather have left it alone … but I wasn’t given that option. At least this way maybe we’ll get some help with Corypheus.”

Thule appeared as doubtful as Leliana felt, however, and she wondered whether they would all live to regret Morrigan’s possession of the Well.


	64. Rumors

Alistair found himself next to Blackwall at lunch the next day, standing in line to be served. He tried to avoid the false Warden as much as possible; he could understand the deception, but when so many true Wardens had died, it was hard to see this one who had pretended to be and wasn’t. Nathaniel Howe felt it even more strongly than he did, since so many of the dead Wardens had been his close friends and Vigil’s Keep family, but Nathaniel was rarely seen in public, so he ran very little risk of encountering Blackwall unless he wanted to.

The King who was once a Warden and the Warden who wasn’t stood next to each other in silence as the line moved forward. Some kind of pork, Alistair thought, sniffing the air appreciatively. And apples. Skyhold certainly beat the Void out of having to skin and kill whatever they could find along the road and then boiling it in that confounded kettle.

Blackwall cleared his throat. “I understand that Corypheus is able to possess Grey Wardens.”

Alistair glanced at him sharply. “He is.” It wasn’t something he would have chosen to discuss in the middle of the main hall at lunchtime, however.

“Huh.” Blackwall considered that for a moment. “For the first time, I’m glad I’m not one.”

“Only because you haven’t turned yourself in yet,” Alistair reminded him.

“The Inquisitor asked me to remain and lend my blade to the cause.”

It had been Leliana, not the Inquisitor, but Alistair didn’t see the point in quibbling. “Yes, well, it’s probably for the best. I’d hate to have to face off against you in battle.” 

He hadn’t meant it as a compliment, certain that he could take the other man, even now, but Blackwall nodded as though it had been one. “Going up against a darkspawn, and the last thing you want is a Grey Warden. Funny how these things happen.”

“Yes. So funny.” Alistair was relieved that it was his turn to have his plate piled high with pork and fried apples and potatoes and onions. He nodded at the server for a little bit more, and her eyes widened. Clearly no one had briefed her about Grey Warden appetites.

The Iron Bull was sitting with Lilias and Merrill and a few of his Chargers. Alistair carried his plate over. 

Lilias looked up, meeting his eyes, and she blushed, which he loved to see. They hadn’t talked since his declaration of love yesterday, not seriously, and so he didn’t know where that would lead, but she was happy to see him, sliding down the bench to make room, and for the moment just sitting near her was enough, feeling her knee nudge his beneath the table.

“So to kill Corypheus, all we have to do is kill his dragon,” the Iron Bull was saying.

“Wait, what?” This was news to Alistair.

“Oh, yeah, that apostate, the one with the …” The Qunari glanced at Merrill and cleared his throat. “Uh, the one with the black hair. She said as much.”

How did people find out these things? Alistair was constantly amazed at the way rumors flew around here.

“I don’t see how that gets us anywhere, Chief,” said Krem, the Iron Bull’s lieutenant.

“Don’t you? It’s a dragon. The Inquisitor and I have killed five together. We’re good at killing shit.” He gestured with his fork across the table at Hawke and Merrill and Alistair. “The king here took down an Archdemon, and Hawke and her team killed a dragon in Kirkwall. Varric told me all about it.”

Lilias shook her head. “You don’t want to believe everything Varric says.”

“Oh, I don’t … but the bones of the story were true. I have an ear for these things.” The Iron Bull’s single eye rested on Lilias with interest, and Alistair inched slightly closer to her. Big and smart and exotic, the Iron Bull’s path through the willing partners available in Skyhold was legendary.

The Iron Bull caught Alistair’s movement and grinned widely, enjoying the display of jealousy he had provoked.

“Yeah, just one more big fight to put this asshole down for good.” The Qunari nodded, spearing a chunk of pork. “I knew we’d get here.”

“And the Chargers are going to be right there to help,” Krem agreed.

The Inquisitor happened to be passing by just then, and he clapped Krem on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to do it without you, that’s for sure.”

“There we go. The Chargers and the Inquisition, kicking Corypheus’s ass!” The Iron Bull’s voice was loud, carrying across the tables, heads turning to hear him. He winked at the Inquisitor, who chuckled in response. Alistair wondered if the whole conversation, at the Qunari’s trademark volume, had been cooked up between them to help build morale. 

It was hard to concentrate too fully, though, with Lilias’s hand finding his under the table, her callused and dexterous fingers interlacing with his. Hungry as he had been and still was, he suddenly wished the meal was over and he could get her alone. Looking up, he met her eyes and saw an answering eagerness there, and they both put their heads down and worked steadily through their food, to the obvious amusement of the Iron Bull and the Chargers, and the total oblivion of Merrill, who was clearly quite distracted, vacillating between a dreamy abstraction and a fidgety nervousness anytime the door behind them that led to Solas’s atrium opened.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana sat in Josephine’s office, sipping fragrant tea. She thought about the days on the road with Leyden, when often all they had was water straight from a stream, and sometimes not even that, and now here she was back in the world where drinking a beverage was as much social, as much part of the Game, as it was about health or happiness. At least here she didn’t have to pretend—Josephine knew her as well as she was comfortable with anyone knowing her.

Josephine sighed, her own cup of tea untouched. “When will he come, do you think?”

“It’s hard to say.” Morrigan would have a speculation, but Leliana had no intention of giving the other woman the satisfaction of asking.

“I hope it comes swiftly. Waiting is …” She shook her head. “I wish it was over.”

“Have you heard from your prospective suitor?”

“Not recently. I wish he would come before—no, I wish he would wait until after—no, I wish he wouldn’t come at all. Oh, I do not know what I wish!”

Leliana smiled. “He will find you receptive, then.”

Her friend’s blush spoke more truth than her vehement denials. “There are more important things to think of. Our Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, is soon to be challenged by a darkspawn who thinks himself a god. If—when—he defeats Corypheus, he will be more than a holy man. He will be a legend. And the Inquisition with him. We must prepare.” 

“What a long view you take, Josie. And how depressing to enter the realms of legend.”

“You talk as if you had not already done so. Sister Leliana, the companion of the Hero of Ferelden, Sister Nightingale, the Left Hand of the Divine …” Josephine leaned forward. “Tell me, my friend. Will you become the Divine?”

“I …” She had been so cagey about this, not wanting to admit it to anyone. “I want to. Yes. I want to very much.” Where that would leave things with Nathaniel, she didn’t know … but she didn’t know where things with Nathaniel would, or could, go, anyway, so it hardly changed the situation. 

Josephine smiled. “You don’t have to tell me. I know you well, remember.”

“It feels as though I shouldn’t admit to it—but do I not have every right to consider the options? Vivienne is—impossible, and I cannot imagine the Inquisitor bringing himself to recommend Cassandra …”

“And who is left? Still … be very careful, my friend.”

“Oh, Josie. I always am.”

“I know. I just—do not want you to become complacent.”

Looking down into the steaming teacup, Leliana understood exactly what her friend was trying to say, and it was a timely warning. It did not do to let one’s guard down.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
After a tete-a-tete with Alistair that was satisfying in many ways, Lilias took a walk across the courtyard, needing fresh air and time away from him to think, before she got too carried away. Being in love was wonderful, but … could she trust it? Could she trust him? And if she did, where could they go? He was still the King of Ferelden, and she was still the disgraced Champion of Kirkwall, a jumped-up apostate’s daughter. 

She found herself in the library, approaching Dorian’s corner, finding him curled in a chair looking off into space appearing as though he felt much as she did.

“Oh, it’s you. Tell me, how are you?” he stirred himself to ask.

“Confused. You?”

“Much the same. The Temple … what you and Merrill told me about it … It has me thinking.” He sighed. “I should go home, back to Tevinter.”

“Now?” she asked, alarmed.

“After we defeat Corypheus. Assuming we do. Assuming I survive.” He shook his head, getting to his feet and looking discontentedly out the window. “I complain and complain about how wrong things are back home, but what have I done about it? Nothing.”

“I understand. I fled Kirkwall rather than stay and try to rebuild. It … well, it wasn’t my home, but it could have been. My mother wanted it to be, and instead I ran.”

“Yes. As did I.”

“I’m not sure how that relates to the elven temple, though.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows as though he thought it should be obvious. “You encountered ancient elves. A piece of history that the Imperium didn’t destroy. It makes me think that there might be something left in my country that is still good, still worth fighting for.” He looked down at Lilias. “Is that what you want, to find something worth saving in Kirkwall?”

“I just … want to know what to fight, and how, and where, and why.”

Tipping his head back, Dorian laughed. “All the great questions of life, in fact.”

“I suppose they are, aren’t they. Do I owe it to Kirkwall, to my mother, to go back? Do I owe it to myself to move forward? I don’t know.” 

“You’re here now, fighting with the Inquisition for what you believe in. Isn’t that enough?”

She looked up, meeting his grey eyes. “Is it enough for you?”

“Ah.” He looked surprised, considering it. “Yes. For now, I believe it is. I want to save my home, I’m certain of that, but Corypheus has to be stopped first, or there will be nothing left to save.” 

“Yes. I—I’m sorry I didn’t stop him for good the first time.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“No.” She looked down at her hands. “But I’m sorry anyway.”

“We make a fine pair, don’t we?”

Lilias nodded. “I’m just glad I’m not the only one with these questions.”

“Far from it, I imagine. I suspect if you stopped any of those who cross Skyhold so busily, they have similar questions—and similar certainty that at least for now, they’re in the right place.” He reached for her hand, holding it tightly. “I had forgotten that. Thank you for reminding me.”

“And you for reassuring me.” They clung to one another, trying to draw strength and courage from each other.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule had been dragged up to Vivienne’s rooms, the mage’s imperious summons making him worry about what it was that she wanted.

She led him into her sitting room, reclining on the settee. “Quite the momentous experience, so I understand. A lost elven temple in the midst of the Wilds. Not something one discovers every day.”

To the best of his knowledge, Vivienne had no interest in elves or their history, so he was curious as to why she’d be this excited.

She continued, frowning, “We should consider the very likely possibility that Morrigan will use her newfound power against us.”

Oh. That was what it was. Jealousy of Morrigan, who had taken her place in Celene’s court, and Morrigan’s suddenly increased power. Although based on her behavior in the War Room, Thule didn’t think Morrigan found her new power completely a positive thing. No doubt she would come to as she got used to it, he supposed, and then it was certain that they wouldn’t be able to trust her. “I think that’s far more than a possibility,” he said. “It’s practically a guarantee.”

“Then what will we do to prepare ourselves?”

“We watch her,” he said immediately.

“Already done, my dear. Leliana certainly keeps a sharp eye on Morrigan’s whereabouts, and I have my own spies reporting her movements to me. But what else? How do we prepare ourselves against her treachery?”

“Well, we certainly don’t trust everything she says.” He didn’t entirely trust Vivienne, either, so he didn’t want to get too thoroughly into the details of their plans. 

“I understand she claims she can become a dragon.”

Vivienne was remarkably well informed, he thought. He wondered where she got her information. “She seemed to indicate as much,” he said carefully.

“Hmm. Circle records have limited information on shapeshifting. There are mentions of counter-spells that may prevent mages from transforming—or, from reverting to their true forms.” She lifted her eyebrows at him, her meaning clear.

Thule grunted noncommittally. He was intrigued by the idea, but he didn’t want to give Vivienne more power, either. 

“Not to worry,” Vivienne assured him, “I have my people researching these spells already. If they have ever been documented, I’ll find them.”

“And you’ll keep me informed?” he asked, getting to his feet. 

“Of course.”

He wished he believed her. 

Downstairs, he found Varric at his usual table, scribbling away in fits and starts. 

“What do you think of our experiences in the Wilds?” he asked, sitting down on the other side of the table. 

Varric groaned. “We went to an elven ruin so a witch could consume a pool of magical goo, and then walked through a mirror and wound up back here. Stones, the shit that happens to you is so crazy, there’s no way to think about it without driving yourself halfway around the bend. If it’s all the same to you, I’m just going to pretend it never happened.”

“You said it,” Thule told him. “How about we play Wicked Grace instead?”

Relieved, Varric dug the cards out from under a stack of papers. “Best idea I’ve heard in a week.”


	65. Where It Might Lead

Blackwall shifted on the bed of straw. He had gotten used to the way it stuck through the blankets and prickled against his back, and to the smell of the horses down below in the barn … but he had yet to get used to the small warm body tucked up against his side. He held himself still for a moment, worried that his restlessness might have awakened her, but she slept on.

Her long braid of hair lay across his chest, and with his free hand he lifted it and brought it to his nose, smelling the scent of strawberries that always seemed to cling to her. Harding had been making this climb up to his loft a regular practice whenever she was in Skyhold for a while now, and Blackwall still felt the same mingling of wonder and guilt and fierce, sharp joy he had felt the first time she had come to him.

Her ardor was like nothing he had ever experienced before. She may not have been experienced in love-making to begin with, but she learned fast, and she applied what she learned in astonishing ways. Just thinking of her capable little hands and hot mouth, he felt himself stirring, and he shifted again.

“Is it the straw?” she murmured sleepily against him.

“It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.” He kissed her temple.

“Do I have to?” Her voice had gotten stronger as she moved toward wakefulness, and she was threading her fingers through his chest hair to caress his skin. “I can think of other things I’d rather do.”

“Again?”

“Mm. Yes, please.” She stretched, her soft limbs brushing against him all along his side.

Small as Harding’s body was, it was absolutely perfectly proportioned, and when she arched her back like that, it was more than a man could take and not reach for her. “Maker’s blood. You are so beautiful.”

Her arms opened for him, inviting him into her embrace. “Show me.”

Every night before she came to him, he told himself he would send her away, that this time he would do the manly and honorable thing … and then she was there, so warm and real and indomitable, and he didn’t have it in him to fight both her and his own desperate need.

Tomorrow, he thought, losing himself in her kiss. Tomorrow he would tell her again how damaged he was, how poor a prize for any woman, much less one as extraordinary as she was, and tomorrow maybe for the first time she would listen.

And even as he thought it, he knew that she wouldn’t, and he rejoiced in her stubbornness, because he no longer knew what he would do without her. As for his eventual return to the Grey Wardens—until Corypheus was dead, he refused to think about it.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Josephine’s desk was piled with correspondence. She had been tasked with contacting all those who had expressed an interest in visiting Skyhold, putting off their visits indefinitely, given the potential for an attack on the fortress by Corypheus. Cullen was particularly adamant that his plans for defense not be hampered by the presence of a lot of useless nobles. And Josephine agreed, although she could have done without the tone he had used. Cullen indulged himself a bit too thoroughly in his distaste for the nobility, in her opinion. They were a fact of life, and one had to accustom oneself to them. Not to mention that she was a noble herself, and was far from useless, thank you very much.

With an effort, she drew her thoughts away from her irritation with the Commander and back to the letter at hand. It was a delicate task; she had to discourage each party from making Skyhold part of their travel plans, but without directly referring to a potential attack, so as not to make Skyhold, and thus the Inquisition as a whole, appear vulnerable. The last thing they needed were offers of soldiers, soldiers who would conveniently still be there after an attack, well placed to begin a takeover attempt. 

But this was her work, and she was good at it, making the words flow from her pen with ease and lightness, but with force subtly behind them.

The door opened just as she was getting into the flow of her fourth letter, and she looked up, irritated, ready to snap at whoever had disturbed her without knocking. But the words died on her lips as she recognized the face, the eyes, she had seen last at Halamshiral and had not been able to forget.

“You are more beautiful than ever.” Lord Otranto approached her desk, gallantly laying the bouquet of multicolored roses he carried down in front of her, but careful not to blot the freshly inked words of the letter.

“Ciel. I mean …” She had gotten to her feet gracelessly, bumping into the desk and sending the chair backwards in her hurry.

“Please. I adore hearing my name on your lips.” He reached for her hand, raising the ink-stained fingers to his lips and kissing them.

Josephine was rarely caught so unawares as she had been just now—and when she was, she had a thousand methods of regaining her composure. None of which was working at the moment. “My lord, I—you did not tell me you were coming.” 

“Naturally not.” Straightening, he smiled at her, the expression lighting his face and those remarkable eyes. “To tell you was to give you the opportunity to tell me not to.”

“Well, yes. I mean, I would have. That is …” She looked down at the letters, the careful pile disarranged when she had bumped into the edge of the desk as she stood up. “It is not a good time just now.”

“It has never been a good time, not since I met you,” he reminded her.

“Yes, that is true.” A hint of sharpness snuck into her voice. “You understand, I am the Ambassador of the Inquisition, and in what free time that leaves me, I am the representative of the House of Montilyet.”

“You work very hard,” Ciel agreed.

“I do a very good job,” Josephine countered. “I do not have time to stop everything and be courted.”

Instead of being irritated, as she had expected and half-hoped he would be, he smiled. “Now, now, _mia cara_ , do not bristle at me. I have never suggested that you stop everything, as you say. Only that, in the course of your day, you carve out a small piece of time in which to be treasured.”

It did sound good, the way he put it. Josephine stiffened her resolve. If he weren’t charming and handsome, if his eyes weren’t as blue as the sky above the mountains, would she still find his words so appealing?

But those eyes were on hers, with every appearance of sincerity, with the patience and forbearance with her endless delays he had shown every step of the way, and it was difficult not to be tempted to let him stay.

Then she remembered Corypheus. “You have to go,” she told him, with more regret in her voice than she probably should have allowed. “It isn’t safe.”

He raised his eyebrows. “There is danger? But you are staying.”

“I am the Ambassador of the Inquisition,” she said again. “My work is here.”

“You cannot do it from somewhere safer?”

Josephine shook her head. “No.”

“Then, in that case, _mia bella_ , if you are staying and braving whatever dangers may come, I will stay as well. Perhaps I can help.”

She frowned, uncertain.

“I see you, wondering what skills I possibly possess. I will tell you—I write excellently well, so I could take on the task of some of these letters, your words but my hand writing them, to relieve some of the tension in these fingers.” He had caught her writing hand in his and was slowly massaging the ball of the thumb, the feeling a delicious relief in muscles she hadn’t even known were sore. “I can fetch and carry, run errands, charm visiting nobles. I have some skill with a sword. In short, I can be at your service, for whatever you might need.” On the last word, his thumb rubbed very subtly at a particularly sensitive spot, and Josephine gasped at the sensation. Ciel smiled in response.

“I … suppose,” she said, more breathlessly than she would like, blushing in a way she would hotly deny if anyone accused her of it, “we could try.”

“Excellent,” Ciel said huskily. He tugged at her hand, and without being entirely certain how she had arrived there, Josephine found herself in his arms, being kissed with a slow thoroughness that made keeping him around seem like a very good idea indeed.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Merrill twirled around in the empty atrium, heedless of the fancily dressed _shemlen_ on the walls looking down at her. She leaped and danced to music that came to her head from her childhood, songs her clan, the first one, had played. Thinking of Varric and his insistence that elves must frolic, she smiled. Perhaps she was frolicking. It felt good.

A warm chuckle came from the door, and she landed from a leap and turned to see Solas watching her, a smile on his face. She was flooded with relief. He had been angry when she agreed to let Morrigan have the Well, very angry, and Merrill had been afraid he wouldn’t recover from it.

“You have a light heart today,” Solas observed.

Now that he was here, Merrill felt shy about her happiness. Yes, she had been promised Morrigan’s eluvian, and teased by that first look at the wood between the worlds, wondering always where it might lead—but at a cost that even she believed had been too high. “The Temple of Mythal,” she began hesitantly. “It was extraordinary. Beyond anything I’d ever dreamed.

Solas frowned. “Yes. But the power of the Well is gone now. What will that witch do with it once Corypheus is dead?”

“I don’t know,” Merrill whispered, the shame of her bargain washing over her.

“The Inquisitor … if he had taken the Well, I could believe he would restore the chaos Corypheus has caused,” Solas continued, almost to himself. “But this woman … She has her own goals, and there is no peace in them. Nothing but her own advancement.”

Merrill agreed with him about Morrigan, but she wasn’t so sure about the Inquisitor. “Do you really think the Inquisitor would do that? He seems more likely to want to move forward and build something new.”

Solas was staring up at one of the murals as though he hadn’t heard her. “Yes. To put things back the way they were. That is the ultimate goal.” He looked at her now, an intensity on his face that she had never seen there before. “Would you like to see the way things used to be, Merrill?”

It was a vague question, but it had an importance to him that made Merrill wary of giving the wrong answer. “I … suppose? I mean, perhaps not exactly …” She trailed off, uncertain of what he was looking for.

Whatever it was, he seemed to have found it in her response. His eyes warmed. “I know what you mean.” He swept her into his arms and danced her around the atrium. The leashed strength in the slender body pressed against hers was exciting, and when he kissed her, a brief, hard, fierce kiss, she responded eagerly.

Releasing her, Solas said, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Merrill asked breathlessly. Her fingers came up to cover her lips, which still felt the imprint of his.

“For understanding the importance of recovering what was lost, even if the cost is high. I was angry with you, Merrill, I cannot deny it, but you made a trade for what you thought would lead you to our people’s past. I understand your choice, even if I do not agree with it. I respect that … and I am indebted to you for the reminder.”

“I am sorry about the Temple,” Merrill whispered, thinking of Abelas, of the other elves giving the last wisps of their centuries-long lives in vain. “It didn’t deserve to be lost that way.”

Solas’s hands rested on her shoulders, holding her tightly. “One of many debts we will settle with Corypheus. But the orb he carries, an elven artifact—that we may still recover, along with its stolen power. And then … then, Merrill …” His eyes glittered with exultation. 

“Then what?” she asked eagerly, swept up by his emotion.

“Then …” Solas blinked, and his face became hooded again. “With luck, some of the past may yet survive.” He let her go and turned away. “I am sorry, I have much to do. Could we speak later?”

“Of course.” Merrill left the atrium feeling very confused, excited, and apprehensive all at once.


	66. To Do What No One Else Dares

Varric closed the door of his room behind him, and did something he very rarely did—he locked it. While generally he liked to be amongst the hustle and bustle of things, at home in the Hanged Man and here in Skyhold, today he needed to think, and he needed to take a moment to commune with himself.

He dug in an inner pocket of his coat and found the runestone, rubbing his thumb back and forth along the carving, his mind going to that lost atrium in the middle of nowhere, the greenish light that had lost its color as the witch had absorbed the Well into herself, the burning anger in the eyes of Corypheus as he had come swooping across the room. That was what Bianca had yielded to, in the end. In the guise of a Grey Warden, true enough, but beneath the Warden had lain that terrible anger, that determination. It had kept Corypheus alive across the ages—for that matter, it had taken him to the Black City in the first place, across the uncrossable threshold to the innermost secrets of Thedas. Varric could no longer tell the truth from the lies, whether the Maker was elf or human or pure myth, and whatever Corypheus knew about the truth was so warped and twisted by his own megalomania that it might as well never have existed. But he wasn’t sure the truth mattered. The truth lay in the story that grew as it was passed down the ages, didn’t it? And that was what Varric did—he created the stories, built them where they needed to be built, shadowed them where they needed to be shadowed.

Bianca built differently. She built things, things to make lives better, things that no one had ever thought of, things that could become the wonders of their age, if not of future ages to come. But she didn’t give thought to posterity; the end result in her hands was enough, the knowledge she gained in the building, that was what she sought, so that the next thing she built could be even better. She was a visionary—but like so many visionaries, she could only truly focus on what was in front of her. All other considerations lay somewhere in the periphery, disregarded and unimportant. Varric had always accepted that he was one of those peripheral considerations, and all things considered, he had been happy with that. He had no more desire for an everyday, all-consuming relationship than Bianca did; he didn’t want a woman who would drag him away from his stories. Should it have surprised him so that people, the lives and safety of the other denizens of Thedas, were also peripheral to Bianca’s thirst for knowledge?

Sighing, turning the runestone over in his fingers, Varric knew he should have expected nothing less. He had known it was a gamble giving her the location of that thaig—and it had been his own cowardice that had led him to it, as much as Bianca’s coaxing. He hadn’t wanted to go back, hadn’t wanted to know, so he’d sent her, knowing her curiosity would lead her to discover things and she would bring the stories back to him.

Well, this was a story, wasn’t it? Just not the one he had expected. He cursed his own complacency, his own certainty that he knew what could come of his actions … but for the first time in a long while, he didn’t curse Bianca. She had been who she was, and how could he blame her for that?  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The night had been long already, and chill, and Cullen couldn’t shake the memory of the demons in Kinloch Hold. He got out of bed and got dressed, no longer willing to fight for snatches of fitful sleep.

He sat down at his desk, lighting a candle and pulling a report closer to him, bending over his desk to squint at the words. But he couldn’t concentrate, the dreams and memories still clouding his mind. 

The battle had gone well. The Inquisition had prevailed, the Inquisitor and his party had escaped Corypheus … but it wasn’t over. They had counted on it being over, on coming home from the Wilds victorious. And now Corypheus was going to come back, more than likely to attack Skyhold, and that Cullen could not bear to contemplate.

Ah. He pushed his chair back, closing his eyes and rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. That was it. Haven. That was why the memories had resurfaced and the demons had returned. The idea of losing another home of the Inquisition to Corypheus, of watching everything they had built so carefully burn … He shuddered at the images that came to his mind, and got to his feet, taking his candle with him.

It guttered and blew out in the cold wind on the battlements as soon as he was through the door, but he held it anyway, a symbolic light in the darkness if nothing else, making his way more by memory and feel than by sight across the bridge and through the dimly lit atrium. No sign of Solas tonight; the elf must have given up his work early today. Usually he worked long into the night, as Cullen did.

Varric sat by a banked fire in the main hall, scribbling away. He looked up as Cullen went past, but didn’t speak. 

Nor did Cullen, bent single-mindedly on his destination.

At last he pushed open the door of the little chapel, glad to see he was the only one whose mind had been so troubled tonight that the peace of Andraste was the only thing that could quiet it. He lit his candle from those left burning at the statue’s feet, then knelt and clasped his hands, letting the words of the Chant pour forth from him.

“’Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.’”

He never had been. Always, even in the depths of his despair, the Maker’s hands had been there—even when he couldn’t see them, couldn’t bear to reach for them, they had been there. The familiar words, the scent of the burning candles, began to calm his thoughts and give him strength.

“’For there is no darkness in the Maker’s light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.’”

Nothing? Cullen wondered. Haven had been lost. But with the loss of the town, the spirit of the Inquisition had risen. They had been bonded as one entity by the shared devastation of that loss in a way nothing else could have done. 

“A prayer for you?” came the soft voice from the doorway.

Cullen didn’t turn; he wasn’t surprised to have her here. In some ways, Dagna was his shadow, following in the small dark places he forgot to look in; in others, she was Andraste, watching over him even when he wasn’t aware of it. Somewhere in the middle of those two, she was a woman, a woman whose heart was wasted on him, and that was the part he was having difficulty coming to terms with.

He realized he hadn’t responded to her question. Over his shoulder, keeping his hands clasped before him, he said, “For those we have lost. And … those I am afraid to lose,” he admitted in a whisper. She had been there for him for so long, whenever he needed her. Now he knew he had to push her away, for her own good, but he lacked the strength of will, the courage to face what lay ahead without knowing she was behind him.

“I’m glad you haven’t lost your faith,” Dagna said, moving toward him even as Cullen turned his head back to Andraste and attempted to focus on the stone feet of the statue.

“I have questioned it at times, you know that, but … in the end, I have always found comfort in faith when life offered little.”

“I wish I had faith.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I believe in science, in the details of magic, in things I can study and test. I don’t know how to approach something I can’t quantify.”

“We must draw strength where we can.” He shifted a bit to the side as she knelt next to him.

“You’re worried that Corypheus will retaliate and you won’t be prepared.”

“You weren’t at Haven, you didn’t see what he did there.”

“I can see it reflected in the fear you carry; you, who fear so little.”

“I fear many things.”

“Only one, in all the time I’ve known you: yourself.”

Cullen frowned. That wasn’t the man he was. It couldn’t be. He got to his feet, turning to leave, the sanctuary no longer as welcoming—or as needed—as it had been.

Her voice stopped him at the door. “And if he never comes? Or if we are victorious? What will you tell yourself you fear then, Cullen?”

For that, he had no answer.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Leliana leaned against the railing, watching the birds fly. They carried messages across Thedas, tales of the Inquisition’s prowess, carefully crafted stories about the Arbor Wilds and the fighting there. Oh, true, mostly … but tweaked just a bit. It would not do to have the rest of Thedas concerned about Corypheus potentially attacking Skyhold—any more than it would do to have them sense an opportunity if he did.

And she thought seriously about what would come next. Their time here, Skyhold itself, was drawing to a close. Corypheus’s supports were crumbling. If Morrigan was to be believed, they were close to nullifying the last weapon Corypheus possessed, his dragon. And little as Leliana liked the witch, she believed in her powers. She had seen them used too many times to doubt. So, when the Inquisition was over—

Behind her she heard the familiar heavy tread of Alistair’s feet on the stairs, and she turned just as he opened the door. 

“Am I interrupting your plotting?”

“Who says I was plotting anything?”

“Sister Nightingale is always plotting something.” He sighed. “Sometimes, I miss Sister Leliana, who saw the good in the Maker’s world, the beauty, and spent an entire Blight trying to get the rest of us to see it, too.”

For a moment, Leliana remembered that woman fondly—but with pity, as well. How little Sister Leliana had understood. “Harsh times call for harsh measures, Your Majesty. Surely you have found that.” She glanced at him, his open face. No, he hadn’t found that yet. No doubt someday he would, and it would take something from him, something valuable, something that made him immeasurably Alistair. And while that would be sad, it was a step he needed to take in his leadership of Ferelden. “When I am ruthless, it gets us where we need to be,” she told him. “It’s something to be proud of.”

“I suppose. You were Princess Stabbity-Stab, even then,” he said, but wistfully.

Oh, how he romanticized the Blight. “I chose to become the Left Hand of the Divine after what I saw during the Blight. Leyden would have approved.”

“Yes, that she would have,” he said, his voice stronger, harder than it had been before. “I’m just now learning that. It probably would have been best for everyone if I had learned it sooner.”

“Probably,” Leliana agreed.

After a pause, Alistair said in a carefully casual tone, “So you’ll continue on here with the Inquisition, then?”

“As long as it needs me to do what no one else dares, I will.”

“And when it doesn’t?”

She shrugged. “Death and deception are my trade. It is what I am. It is what I always will be. So when I am not needed here I will find another place to serve that needs the work I can do.”

“You would have made a fine Warden.”

“Possibly so. It is unfortunate for the Wardens that I was not tainted during the Blight, then, it seems.” Fortunate for herself, however, since the Wardens were mostly dead now. She didn’t say that to Alistair, though. He had never been one for dark humor. And, after all, she believed her path lay in a direction far higher, far darker, than the Wardens’ path. The Grand Cathedral; the Sunburst Throne. Yes, that was where she was destined, and she was now more than ever determined to get there. What the Inquisitor had uncovered in the Arbor Wilds could upend all Thedosian mythology—they needed a firm hand guiding the changes to be made to the Chantry, and whose hand was firmer than her own?

Alistair remained silent, unaware of the direction of her thoughts, and she was glad of it. He would be a better support for her if she did not seem to be actively seeking the throne. They stood there together watching the sunset like two old friends at peace.


	67. What Comes Beyond

The mountains around Skyhold were still and silent. Only the first fingers of the dawn were touching the tops, very little light yet to be seen. Alistair stood watching, his mind as blank as the snowy hillsides, and glad for the respite from thought.

A small sound from behind him pulled him from his blankness, and he turned to see Lilias sitting up, her dark hair wild and loose around her shoulders. It was hard for him to believe she was really there. He had been alone for so long.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Then he remembered his promise, to himself and to her, to try to be honest with both of them. “Everything.”

“Corypheus.” 

“Yes … but not just him. What comes beyond him.”

Lilias winced and shivered, pulling the blankets up around her. “I can’t think beyond him. I—I have to kill him this time. I have to—I have to be able to set something right.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe not on a higher level. I didn’t imprison him, that much is true. But I woke him. I set him free. I let him walk out of that tower in Larius’s body. If I had listened to Fenris and been willing to kill him, none of this would have happened.” She gave a small, humorless laugh. “For that matter, if I had listened to Fenris and been willing to kill Anders, none of that would have happened, either. But I was merciful, if you want to call it that, and look what came of it.”

Alistair didn’t bother to argue. Nothing he could say would shake her deep-seated guilt; the best he could do was stay by her side and help her kill Corypheus, and he had already committed to that.

Lilias took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “I know; that’s all behind me now. I can’t rebuild the Chantry; I can’t put the Circles back, and I’m not sure I would want to. But I can kill Corypheus. And I intend to.”

“I envy you,” Alistair said, without meaning to.

“Me? Why?”

“Because you have a goal. And an endgame. But when we kill Corypheus, I have to go back and take another stab at ruling Ferelden, and …” He swallowed, not wanting to admit it to either of them. “I don’t know how.”

“You’ve done a fine job so far.”

It was his turn for a humorless laugh. “Not according to Teagan. To hear him tell it, he’s had to do all the work for me all along, and I’ve just been the figurehead. And a failure of one at that. No wife, no heirs, no impressive accomplishments, no wars … except for the one we lost in Redcliffe against the mages, of course. Hardly a feather in my cap.”

“He can’t possibly blame you for all of that.”

“He does, and with pleasure. And he isn’t wrong,” Alistair said painfully. “I’ve been—I’ve been a disaster, is what I’ve been.”

Those frank blue eyes studied his face carefully. At last Lilias said, “I think you sell yourself short.”

“Well, then, you’re the only one. I owe it to my country to do better.”

“Then do better! Pull yourself together, Alistair.”

“Funny, that’s what I say every morning. I look in the mirror, trying to remember all the things I’m not supposed to screw up that day, and I say ‘pull yourself together, Alistair’. It never works.”

“You almost sound like you don’t want to go back.”

He wanted to flinch from the directness of her gaze, to tell her, and himself, what it would be easiest to hear, but he had promised. He wanted to be someone who told the truth, to put all the lies he had been telling himself for a decade and more aside. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Do you wish you’d stayed a Warden, left Anora on the throne or appointed someone else?”

“Maker, yes.” There was a relief in saying it out loud to her, and a greater relief in seeing that she didn’t think the less of him for the admission. “I was a good Grey Warden. I was proud to be one. I would have gone on being proud to be one. Maybe—maybe I could have helped them, prevented what … happened. But … well, Leyden insisted that I was the one to bring the country together, that I had talents, skills, I didn’t know I possessed, that I would learn how to be a king by being one.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Why was she so insistent? If she knew she was going to die, if she knew you didn’t want to be king, why did she force you to do it?”

“We didn’t know one of us had to die, not until—not until it was too late. Until I was already king. So who knows, maybe she wanted me on the throne far from her, maybe it was to keep me from going after the Archdemon to take the glory for herself. If there’s anything I’ve come to understand, it was that I never really understood her.” He shook his head decisively, crossing the room to sit on the bed next to Lilias, one hand reaching out to stroke the soft dark hair that fell over her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter what she thought. Not anymore.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

For answer, he kissed her. It wasn’t an answer, it was an evasion, he knew that. The coward’s way out. Probably she knew it, too. But he didn’t know what he was going to do, and he had this reprieve now until they had killed Corypheus, and he intended to make the most of it.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze traveling past the crackling fire and out the open doors to rest on the bright stars above the mountains. Corypheus would come soon, he could feel it. This life, this Inquisition, was predicated on the threat of Corypheus. Who would he be—what would he be—when it was over? What would he have to offer?

The cushions shifted as Cassandra settled on the couch next to him. She sat there quietly, but he could feel the weight of her gaze on him. He wanted to turn, to speak to her, but he didn’t know what to say. 

She reached out, her long, strong fingers resting on his shoulder. 

Again, he thought of turning to speak, but he couldn’t seem to withdraw his eyes from the stars, or to think of how to begin the conversation he knew he needed to have. If she said no, if she turned him down, if she proved that the Chantry meant more to her than he did … He couldn’t bear to take the risk.

After a few moments, he wasn’t sure how long, she withdrew her hand from his shoulder and sat forward. “In all the time I have known you, I don’t believe you have ever been quiet for this long.”

He managed a nod at that one, but still couldn’t trust his voice.

“You must speak to me, my love. Something troubles you. Let me help you.”

Thule pushed words out with an effort. “I—It’s nothing.”

“It is not nothing, clearly. Is it Corypheus?”

He shrugged.

“I understand. I worry about him, too. He is powerful, and you have yet to fight him one-on-one … which someday you must do. I dread the conflict.”

Thule reached for her hand, closing it in his.

“But you will have your chance,” Cassandra went on, gripping his hand tightly. 

“We’ll have our chance,” he corrected, finding his voice at last. “We’ll face Corypheus together.”

Over his shoulder, he saw her smile. “There is not another man I would be more proud to fight beside.”

He tugged her closer, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

Cassandra sighed in contentment. “Not long ago, this would have been impossible to imagine—you, the man I love; victory close at hand.”

“That … assuming the victory, assuming that it’s as close at hand as it seems …” He gathered his courage. “Cassandra, we have never talked about what would come next, after—after Corypheus.”

He could feel her tense, but she didn’t move from her position. “No. No, we have not.”

Now he did turn, looking into her eyes. “Cassandra, I love you. I know you have a hard time believing that, and whether that’s about me or about you—well, it doesn’t matter. Because I do love you, and all I want of the future after we defeat Corypheus is to be with you, wherever you are.”

“And … if I am named Divine?” she asked hesitantly, withdrawing her hand from his.

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“We can still be together,” he said, but he wished he sounded, or felt, more confident about it.

“Can we?” Cassandra sat up, shaking her head. “I am not so certain. If I were to be named Divine … I would owe to the Chantry all my best work, all my focus, my determination.”

“And that takes precedent over what you feel for me?”

“Oh! My love, no. Not … not in my heart, no. If it were up to me, if it were only my welfare, my needs to consider, I would ask for nothing more than this, nothing more than to spend my life with you. But the Chantry—that touches all of Thedas. So many people depend on its teachings. It is their lifeline. How can I put my own welfare and desires ahead of that?”

It was substantially what he had expected her to say—what he had dreaded hearing her say, he was so certain of her answer. But his heart sank at the words, the reminder that he, that they, that she was less important to herself than the Chantry. He would lose her to the Sunburst Throne, and there was nothing he could do about it. If he threw his support behind another candidate, she would know, and she would know why, and she would despise him for his selfishness. He was caught in a trap of his own making. And without the Inquisition, he had no alternative to offer her anyway, nothing more than the love of an ex-Carta associate who had once led an army.

“Please, Thule, we don’t need to make any decisions about this now, do we?” she asked, her long fingers cupping the side of his face and turning it toward her. “You have not lost me yet.”

Looking into her beautiful face, her expressive eyes, he wanted to tell her that any chance of losing her was too much, that he couldn’t bear even to consider the possibility, that he wanted, needed, promises. But he couldn’t. To demand that of her would be to drive her away now and to cost himself the love and support he needed in order to finish off the tasks of the Inquisition and defeat Corypheus. So he lied.

“No, we don’t have to make decisions now. We have better things to do anyway.” And he kissed her, to stop the conversation and cover the crack in his heart.


	68. Important Work

It was a measure of how the time weighed on everyone’s hands, sitting here in Skyhold waiting for Corypheus, that Varric had agreed to play chess with him today, Alistair thought. Lilias may have forgiven him—or at least put her feet on the road toward doing so—but her dear friend the dwarf had most assuredly not.

Still, he was a reasonable chess player. Not exceptional, like Dorian or Cullen, but not hopeless, either. The two of them were well-matched, and the game had been diverting so far. And it appeared Varric wasn’t cheating, which was a pleasant surprise in and of itself.

So it was a disappointment to Alistair when Varric’s head snapped up in a patently false manner and he pointed across the garden. “What do you make of that, Your Royal Majesty?”

Alistair suppressed an urge to snap at the dwarf’s insistence on the most ridiculous versions of his title, since he knew from experience it wouldn’t help, and he kept his attention firmly on the board. “Not falling for it, Varric.”

“No, I mean it. It’s the Raven.” Varric was halfway out of his chair now, the game clearly forgotten, and Alistair paused with a rook in his hand, convinced now that either there was something distracting in the gardens, or Varric had gone mad. Either was a perfectly reasonable possibility, really, but Alistair would far rather not have to explain to Lilias that one of her dearest friends had become a lunatic.

He turned in his seat, watching Varric hurry over to … Morrigan? It was Morrigan, wandering the garden—staggering, really—with one hand to her head. If there was anyone Alistair didn’t trust more than he didn’t trust Varric, it was Morrigan. Still, he apparently had to accept that his nightmares seemed about to come true today, so he put down the pawn and followed Varric.

“My mother,” Morrigan muttered thickly. 

“Who?”

“My mother. Mythal.”

“Mythal’s an elven god,” Varric whispered to Alistair, although Morrigan didn’t appear to know either of them was there, so there seemed little need for the whispering. “She’s long gone with the rest of them. Why would Morrigan think Mythal was her mother?”

Thinking of Flemeth, with a shudder, Alistair said, not completely facetiously, “You never met her mother.”

“You know,” Morrigan said suddenly, turning to Alistair and grabbing him by the collar. “You know what she wanted of me. What she always wanted of me. It’s why I sent you after her.”

“Yes, yes. She wanted to eat you.”

“Not eat me! Consume me. Take my body for her own to extend her life.” Morrigan laughed hysterically. “Only it wasn’t Flemeth. Not all Flemeth, no! It was Mythal, grasping at life after life.”

Alistair frowned. “Flemeth is Mythal?”

“Flemeth is Mythal,” Morrigan repeated heavily. “And I am tied to her … for eternity.” She laughed again, a wild sound that reminded Alistair uncomfortably of the first time he had met Flemeth, in that lost little hut in the middle of the Korkari Wilds.

“Why tied?” Varric asked, looking from one to the other of them, trying to divine the story from their faces. “Because you drank from the Well?”

“It is the price. Isn’t that rich? All these years trying to escape from her, only to tie myself willingly to her from my own thirst for knowledge and power?”

“Serves you right,” Varric muttered.

“Perhaps it does, dwarf.” Morrigan blinked rapidly, some of her normal self-possession beginning to return to her eyes. “Perhaps we can use this.”

“Use it how?” Alistair asked.

“I … do not know. The voices of the Well speak to me. They tell me I can match his dragon. With the power of Mythal supporting me, I can be even greater still. I—“ She rubbed her forehead again. “I should lie down. The past hour has been … much. Too much.”

“Let me help you to your room,” Alistair offered, feeling like it was the only thing to do.

Morrigan laughed again, this time sounding more like herself. “To think you have lived to hear yourself make that offer.”

“Lucky me.”

When he came back, Varric was waiting for him. “What was that, Your Kingliness?”

“Morrigan.”

“You think she’ll be all right?”

Alistair shrugged. “She always seems to land on her feet.”

“You think she was telling the truth?”

“Some of it.”

“But not all.”

“No. Never all.”   
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Thule reached the top of the stairs, looking around the rookery, surprised by the silence. Usually it was bustling up here, birds flying in and out, scouts taking down messages and scurrying up and down the worn wooden steps, Leliana leaning tensely over her desk, reading dispatches and giving clear, concise orders. But now, even though it was only late afternoon, the birds were hooded in their cages, the scouts nowhere to be seen, and Leliana sat in the chair behind her desk, her feet propped up, her arms crossed over her chest, watching for him.

He shrugged off the feeling of foreboding that had settled on his shoulders and mustered up a semblance of his normal smile. The realization made in his rooms last night with Cassandra still weighed heavily on his heart—support her for Divine or support someone else to keep her off the Sunburst Throne, the result would be the same. He was going to lose her, one way or the other. And the idea of going on without her, regardless of what might happen with the Inquisition, was the keenest pain he had ever known.

Looking up at Leliana, he could see that he hadn’t concealed his emotions anywhere near well enough. Or perhaps she had been ten steps ahead of him, as she so often was, and had predicted exactly this dilemma.

“Inquisitor.”

“Spymaster.”

She acknowledged the pointedness of his use of her title with a small smile as she gestured her head toward the seat opposite her. “I suppose you have some idea why I wanted to see you.”

He looked around the empty Rookery. “I do now. And … I can’t.”

“Of course you can.”

Thule shook his head. “No. If I support you for Divine—don’t you see how she’ll take that?”

Leliana frowned at him impatiently. “If you say so openly, then that is what will happen. But if you speak quietly, to the right people—“

“She’ll still find out. Or figure it out. Or, worse, be suspicious.”

The smile on Leliana’s lips was almost generous. “To think that the decision of who should be Divine comes down to one man’s love.”

“The Chantry is based on one man’s love—if you want to consider the Maker as a man, and certainly Andraste must have.”

“You blaspheme, Inquisitor,” Leliana said, but lightly, without heat.

“Does it matter if I do? I’m as consumed as ever the Maker was, and I have no way out that doesn’t leave me bereft.” It was uncomfortable speaking to her so plainly—they had never dealt so openly together, he and Leliana—but it was freeing, as well. He certainly couldn’t speak like this with Cassandra. Or maybe he should have, Thule thought with a sudden pang. Maybe he should have said that losing her to the Sunburst Throne would be like tearing the heart out of his body. But what would that have accomplished but to make the terrible decision Cassandra’s burden rather than his own? He couldn’t have done that to her.

“I am surprised at you, to have such limited thinking, Thule. Usually you are better than this. I will have to chalk it up to being distracted by Cassandra’s beauty.”

“Oh?” he snapped, tired of the sense that Leliana was playing him like a fish on a hook. “Well, then if you have all the answers, tell me what to do.”

“Nothing. Very simply, you do nothing.”

“How does that help?”

She sighed and shook her head at his denseness. “When asked, you say that you could not possibly support one member of the Inquisition at the expense of the other … or you continue to say, as you have done so far, that the Inquisition’s needs trump those of the Chantry and you cannot make a statement either way until that is no longer the case. In the meantime, work goes on in the background toward the end that will satisfy us both. You and I know perfectly well that your honorable lady is too forthright for such machinations.”

It was true; Cassandra would scorn to campaign for herself in back rooms and balls, and Leliana would excel at such a thing. “It sounds too easy.”

“Perhaps. But there is great support for her, as a more … traditional candidate. Trust me when I tell you that mine will not be a simple task.”

“And if Corypheus comes before the decision is made and I am forced to make a choice?”

“You should pray, Inquisitor, that he does not,” Leliana said simply. She swung her legs down from the desk and leaned across it toward him. “Do we have an accord?”

“We do.”

He went down the stairs again with a heart that was both light and troubled. He felt as though he had betrayed Cassandra by making such a deal … but he could not have done otherwise, not when the alternative was so impossible.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
As Lilias made her way to the tavern, where she had agreed to meet Dorian for a glass of wine, she found Cullen leaning on the battlements, watching the sun set over the mountains. It was a glorious view, Lilias had to admit, and she had a few minutes before Dorian expected her, so she stopped and stood next to Cullen.

They watched the sky change colors in silence. It had been a long time since Lilias had spent any time with Cullen—they had known each other to speak to in Kirkwall, and traveled in the same social circles occasionally, but never been particularly close. As a brilliant shade of red streaked across the sky, she turned to look at him, and was struck by the peace in his face. He looked, not younger, perhaps, but better rested. More sure of himself. 

“It suits you,” she said suddenly, “this Inquisition.”

Cullen glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose it does,” he agreed after a moment’s reflection. “We are doing good work, important work, and I can assist.”

“Not like Kirkwall.”

“No.” A shadow crossed his face. “Not like Kirkwall.”

Lilias nodded, looking back out at the sky and the mountains, feeling envious. While she and Alistair had come to some sort of understanding, she was far from feeling at peace. So much about her time in Kirkwall haunted her, from the echoes bouncing off the walls of that Deep Roads cavern to the memory of the way the silk had whispered as the grotesque creature with her mother’s face had hobbled toward her to the screams of the dying as the dust of the blasted Chantry settled thickly on every available surface. No, there was no peace at hand.

She blushed to find Cullen watching her intently, embarrassed at being caught dwelling so obviously on the past.

But he looked courteously away, down at the stones under his hands. “You still feel tied to that time,” he observed.

“My life will never be the same.”

“No, of course not. Nor mine, for that matter. But—“ Cullen glanced at her. “Perhaps it isn’t my place.”

“Please. I’ll take advice wherever I can get it.” She blushed again. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

He gave her a small smile. “I understand completely.”

“You were saying?”

“That … your life may never be the same, but nevertheless you have a choice which direction it goes from here. You can allow Kirkwall and its horrors to drag you down and hold you beneath the surface of despair, or you can break through and find a fresh start.”

“How can I, when all of Thedas still thinks of me in connection with Kirkwall and holds me responsible for what happened there?”

“Are you responsible?”

“Yes!”

Cullen shook his head. “No. Or, more to the point, you may be, but so is Varric, who knew where Anders was and did not turn him in; so am I, so was Meredith, because we knew he existed and yet could not find him. So was Warden-Commander Caron here in Ferelden, because she let him go, knowing how unstable he was. Shall I continue?”

“It—I—I should have killed him,” Lilias said. “When I first met him, he made it very obvious he wasn’t in control of Justice. I should have killed him then, but … fresh from Ostagar, from the Blight, from a year with the mercs … I had seen so much death, I wanted no more of it. Ironic, really, where I ended up, killing my way through Kirkwall.” She looked down at her hands, seeing the reflection of the sunset’s reds and oranges on them. “I will never get these clean.”

“You are a fighter. It’s what you do,” Cullen told her. “I am a soldier; I, too, have my fair share of blood on my hands. Everyone in the Inquisition does. But you do not have to let it define everything in your life.”

“Don’t I? I wish I believed that.”

“I wish you did, too,” he said, looking at her with compassion and understanding. “But only you can come to that belief—no one can gift it to you, much as they may wish to.”

Lilias turned her hands over, studying the palms. For the first time, she thought perhaps her destiny lay within their grasp, rather than someone else’s. “Maybe I can,” she said. “Maybe I can.”


End file.
